


and you lift me up in a wave of love

by televangelists



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: CEO Asami, F/F, Modern AU, gratuitous classic rock songs, surfer korra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:35:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26013472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/televangelists/pseuds/televangelists
Summary: The girl smiles suddenly, the left side of her mouth curving up into a crooked grin. “Well, I’d better help you out then.” She pulls her aviators off the top of her head and hands them to Asami, then scoops up her surfboard. “Put these on and follow me.”Asami doesn’t hesitate for a moment.[Asami goes to Ember Island looking for a vacation. Instead, she finds Korra.]
Relationships: Korra/Asami Sato
Comments: 42
Kudos: 443





	and you lift me up in a wave of love

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be like 15k tops and i let it get out of hand...hopefully it inspires someone to draw some surfer!korra fanart because there isn't enough of that. title is from heaven is a place on earth by belinda carlisle. fic playlist is [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7eFI05noNVgEeStm1P90Up?si=KdlmMMo2TUKYjBix5xp5uQ)

That time was like never, and like always.  
So when we go there, where is nothing is waiting;   
we find everything waiting there.  
  
\- Pablo Neruda, from _Sonnet IV_

Ember Island is an open flame.

Asami is a city girl born and bred, and she’s never stepped very far outside the neat lines of Republic City, but here she is, wading through miles of burning sand, feeling the sun beat down on her back like it’s trying to press her right into the ground.

 _This will be a vacation,_ she’d told her secretary, Opal, earlier that week. Now that she’s here, she’s thinking it might be more like purgatory.

But she’s made it this far, and as bad as it seems, Ember Island is at least a haven from the ravenous press and the weight of expectation, so she’s determined to push onward. She walks on through the sand, putting her bag and towel down near the water, and collapses onto the ground, her towel twisted and half-spread underneath her.

Hard to remember what she’s supposed to be doing here, exactly. Hard to forget, though, why she’d wanted to come in the first place.

The sun is relentless, and Asami starts to wonder if maybe she should have worn SPF 50 instead of the SPF 30 she’d found in the hotel gift shop at an outrageous price. Still time to buy that later, she supposes.

She rests her head against the ground, the sand warm and baking against her skin even through the layer of cloth that separates them, and takes in a deep breath; salt, seaweed, sunscreen. 

To her right, the ocean sprawls out towards the horizon, the waves cool and blue, the sun dancing on the water with a brilliance like diamonds. It’s beautiful, and unrestrained in a way that the smooth calm of Republic City Bay never is. 

Asami thinks she could get to like that.

Vaguely, she wonders how it’s going back in her office - if Opal is sitting in the penthouse of Future Industries fielding calls from every paper and network in the city, if the mech deals have been closed with Varrick Industries, if her father -

She pauses, pushes all of that out of her mind. The whole point of being here is to escape from her normal life for a while.

A seagullhawk flies by overhead, its cry high and piercing, and Asami rolls over on her back, watches the bird drift lazily across the sky. Ideas swirl through her mind, hints and sketches of wing designs, bare traces of inspiration.

Her phone, buried somewhere in her bag, buzzes. Asami ignores it; it’s probably Opal, and she doesn’t want to deal with that right now. She thinks she might even start leaving her phone back at the hotel room, although the safe provided is so rickety and cheap that anyone could probably pry it open with their bare hands. 

Asami hears her phone buzz again. Instead of reaching for it, she stands and walks down to the water’s edge, wades in slowly.

The water is cool against her skin, the sand soft and yielding beneath her. A wave crashes against her, breaking against her chest, cold at first but then refreshing.

It feels like taking a breath. It feels like letting go. 

Asami puts her arms in the air and dives forward into the water, cutting through it like the blade of a knife.

The cold pulls the air from her lungs in a sudden, fluid movement, but then she’s resurfacing and laughing, hair wet and messy, five hundred dollars at the salon ruined in a single instant. It feels good. 

She dives again.

The minutes start to slip by like the waves, and Asami is lying on her back, watching the sky as the currents carry her aimlessly, when she hears a shout coming from somewhere near her. She lifts her head slightly, looking for the source of the noise, and suddenly realizes that there’s something large and solid headed right for her. A surfboard, with a person on top of it.

A panicked yell, a loud splash, a sharp pain in her right shoulder, and Asami is knocked backwards, underwater. She comes up gasping for air, flicks her wet hair out of her eyes.

“What the hell are you doing?” the other person asks, her voice unquestionably annoyed. Asami looks up and sees a girl several inches shorter than her, all short brown hair and crossed arms and piercingly blue eyes, not a trace of recognition on her face as she looks at Asami with nothing other than irritation. 

Asami blinks once, twice. Breathes in, out, in again. She thinks of glaciers, and ice water, and the color of the sky in the winter.

This girl has _really_ blue eyes. 

“What am _I_ doing?” Asami blurts out, finally coming to her senses again. “You’re the one who just ran me over like a maniac.” 

The girl frowns. “It’s your own fault for swimming here! This is the surfing zone.” She points towards the shore, where a blue flag with three spiraling circles of white is waving proudly, and Asami tips her head to one side in confusion.

“Oh,” the girl says, her expression clearing a little. “I get it. You must be a tourist.”

“Well - ” Asami says hesitantly. She presses one hand to her shoulder; it will probably be bruised by the end of the day.

The girl reaches for her surfboard, which is short and white with a blue sticker of some kind on the front end. “Just watch where you’re swimming from now on.” She lies down on the board and starts paddling away, and Asami hears her snort “ _Tourists_ ” as she leaves. 

Asami makes her way out of the water and back to her towel, her shoulder aching and her heartbeat racing. She picks up her things and walks back towards the parking lot, the sand burning her feet at every step, the heat in the air weighing her down like a tangible burden.

She finds her way back to the hotel and lies on the floor in the half-baked comfort of the failing AC system, and eventually falls asleep thinking about blue eyes and a white surfboard.

//

In the morning, Asami orders room service for breakfast, then lazes around the room for a while, windows open, curtains pushed back. She sits in a chair by the window, watching people walk back and forth along the street, taking in the colorful jumble of shops and restaurants. 

Her phone rings, flashing at her from where she dropped it on her bed. Asami sighs and reaches for it, glances at the caller ID before she holds it to her ear. 

“Hey, Opal.”

 _“Asami,”_ Opal says, her tone sounding a little tired. Asami shifts in her chair, drags her finger along the edge of the arm. _“How’s Ember Island?”_

“It’s okay so far,” Asami says. “Hot, though. And some girl hit me with her surfboard yesterday.”

 _“That’s real great,”_ Opal says distractedly. _“Look, I don’t want to rush you or anything, but when do you think you’ll be back? I get about a hundred calls a day from the Republic City Gazette, wondering where you are, and Varrick is being difficult again. Says he doesn’t want to invest in the mech deal unless we’re using pure platinum, even though I told him that we don’t have enough supplies for that.”_

“Sorry, Opal,” Asami mutters, feeling guilt wash over her. “I’ll be back soon. I just need a little time.”

Opal’s voice softens. _“I know that. And you deserve it. All I’m saying is that - ”_

“Things are complicated with me gone. I know.”

 _“Don’t worry,”_ Opal says. _“I’ll make something up. I’m good at that.”_

They’re quiet for a moment. Asami feels like she’s hovering on the edge of something, balanced on a line so fine that she can’t discern it from the ground she walks on. She presses the phone to her ear harder, listens to the slight crackle of static.

“Thank you,” she says finally. 

_“Of course,”_ Opal says. _“Now go out and have fun. If you’re going to ditch Republic City, you may as well make the most of it.”_

Asami smiles and ends the call, then reaches for her shoes. She drops her phone onto the bed, leaving it behind without caring that it might get stolen. 

//

She finds herself walking to the beach again, mostly because there’s not much else to do on Ember Island. The sun is just as hot and oppressive as the day before, but she lies down and spreads sunblock over herself, grains of sand sticking to her arms and legs as she sprawls out near the water. This time, she makes sure to stay outside of the blue flag marking the surf zone.

She watches the surfers paddling out past the break, catching waves the way birds catch air currents, flying towards shore like gravity is nothing but a word to them. Idly, she wonders if the girl from yesterday is somewhere out there. Even though she’d been rude and unhelpful and almost broke Asami’s shoulder, something about her made Asami feel like she was a person worth knowing. 

It’s like thinking about her has some kind of summoning power, because when Asami looks towards the lifeguard chair, she sees the girl sitting there, lounging in the shade, surfboard lying next to her. She’s wearing what looks like a pair of blue lifeguard shorts and a white crop top, seemingly immune to the heat of the day.

Asami half wants to walk over to her, but she has no idea what she’d say. She has no experience with cool surfer girls, even if they are bitchy. 

And this girl is _cool_. Aviator sunglasses tipped back on top of her head, hair hanging in wet strands that fall just short of her shoulders, a quiet confidence surrounding her as she leans back against the lifeguard chair supports in a way that would make James Dean jealous.

Asami feels her breath catch in her throat as she looks, but she can’t take her eyes away. 

There’s a screech of brakes coming from the parking lot, an indistinct jumble of chatter too loud to be the seagullhawks circling the beach, and Asami feels her heart sink like it’s been dropped into the ocean. She turns to see a crowd of reporters, a sea of faces and cameras and notebooks that crests over the sand dunes towards her.

It’s been one day, and they’ve already found her.

Asami quietly curses fate, the spirits, the universe, and whatever gods may exist - in that order - and then quickly weighs her options. 

She doesn’t really have any. It’s either dive into the ocean and hope she can hold her breath for a few hours, or make a run for it.

She gets to her feet, sand flying in every direction, hot and stinging. One breath in, one breath out, and she’s walking over to the girl by the lifeguard chair. 

“Hey,” Asami says, the word falling heavily off her tongue, awkwardness weighing her down. 

The girl opens one eye, stares at Asami. “Hey there, tourist.”

“Hi. Look, um - ” Asami casts a glance over her shoulder to where the reporters are struggling through the sand by the parking lot. “I know we kind of got off on the wrong foot - literally in my case - but I really need to get out of here like, right now, so is there another way off this beach?”

“Uh, yeah,” the girl says. “Just walk up the boardwalk and you can get back into town that way.”

Asami’s eyes flick over to the boardwalk, which looks faded and splintery and bound to lead her in the wrong direction. “Right.”

She takes one step away, uncertain, and the reporters start shouting. 

“Miss Sato!” 

“Asami, over here!” 

“Can we get a comment from you on why you’ve chosen to flee the city?”

Asami freezes like she’s been shot in the back, spine stiffening, muscles tightening, every part of her screaming to run as far as she can. The girl, still leaning up against the chair supports, looks at her with mild interest. “You’re some kind of big deal, huh?”

“Not trying to be,” Asami mumbles, taking a step behind her even though the girl is significantly shorter than her and won’t do much as a shield. 

The girl smiles suddenly, the left side of her mouth curving up into a crooked grin. “Well, I’d better help you out then.” She pulls her aviators off the top of her head and hands them to Asami, then scoops up her surfboard. “Put these on and follow me.”

Caught between the press and the unknown, Asami doesn’t hesitate for a moment. She puts on the sunglasses and lets the world dim itself to a manageable level, then lets this magnetic, blue-eyed girl lead her towards the boardwalk, her steps feeling lighter against the sand.

//

The girl walks her along the boardwalk until they reach a small store on the edge of the beach, the building painted a pale green with white trim, a rack of surfboards propped outside the open door. A sign over the door reads “Avatar Surf.” Looking back, Asami doesn’t see any reporters on their tail. She lets herself relax a little.

“Come on in,” the girl says, leaning her board up against the wall and reaching up to take her sunglasses back. Asami follows her into the shop, blinking as her eyes adjust to the decrease in brightness.

The floor is made of solid, polished wooden boards, warm and sticky and a little bit sandy underneath her feet. Racks of shirts and wetsuits line the aisles, and surfboards lean against the walls. Overhead, a set of off-white fans send warm drafts of air swirling lazily across the shop. 

“Hey, Korra,” a guy behind the counter says cheerfully. He’s got eyes almost as green as Asami’s own, and a grin that makes Asami smile by osmosis. “Who’s this?”

“Did you bring a friend back?” another guy asks, walking out from a back room with a stack of boxes in his arms. He’s taller and leaner, and his eyes are golden, but he’s clearly related to the guy behind the counter. “Are you making actual friends?”

 _Korra._ Asami repeats the name in her mind, lets it sink into her memory.

“Oh, fuck off,” Korra says lightly. “I wouldn’t call her a friend, exactly. She’s a tourist. I rescued her from the beach.”

“Like you do with the sea turtleducks,” the guy behind the counter smiles. “Well, hello there.” He nods to Asami. “I’m Bolin, and this tragically less handsome boy is my brother, Mako.”

Mako sets down his boxes and throws what looks like a chunk of wax at Bolin. They start arguing, and Korra turns to Asami, her expression half exasperated and half amused. 

“These losers are my best friends,” she explains. “Unfortunately.” 

Asami nods like she understands, like she’s ever had anyone she could count as a friend at all, besides Opal. “You guys work at this store together?”

Korra’s mouth curves into that crooked smile again. “I _own_ this store.”

“Oh.” Asami raises an eyebrow, impressed despite herself. It’s all a little ironic, considering that she owns an entire corporation, but Korra seems to belong in this shop in a way that Asami doesn’t feel she does when she sits in the penthouse office of Future Industries. 

Korra owns this store. Some days, Asami feels more like Future Industries owns her. 

“So,” Korra continues, hopping up to sit on the counter. “You got a name, or should I just keep thinking of you as Annoying Rich Tourist?”

The corner of Asami’s mouth twitches. “I’m Asami.” 

She leaves out her last name on purpose, feeling the kind of hesitation that comes from a lifetime of people treating her family background like an asset or a loaded weapon, hoping that her first name and the paparazzi won’t be enough for Korra to connect the dots.

“Asami,” Korra repeats, and Asami has never loved the sound of her own name as much as she does now. “I’m Korra.”

“Korra, huh,” Asami says, reveling in speaking it aloud. “Guess I’ll have to stop thinking of you as Bitchy Surfer Girl.”

“Wow,” Korra laughs. “Not pulling punches, there.”

Asami shrugs one shoulder. “You did kind of run me over.” 

Bolin bangs a fist against the cash register, and Asami jumps. She’d forgotten that he and Mako were even there anymore.

“Stupid piece of shit,” Bolin mutters. “It’s sticking again.” 

Korra leans over to help him, her shirt riding up higher on her stomach as she does so. Asami tries not to stare. A flash of brown skin, the edge of a black bikini top; Asami’s breath suddenly quick and uneven. 

“Fuck,” Korra says, hitting the register in frustration. “I hate this thing.”

“Here,” Asami says, stepping forward. “Can I try?”

Korra regards her skeptically. “No offense, but you seem more like the person handing over the cash, not the one behind the register.”

Rich girl jab. Asami’s heard them all before. 

“I’m also an engineer,” she replies calmly. “I think I can handle this.” 

Korra still looks doubtful, but she shifts over to let Asami join her behind the counter. For a heartbeat, they’re pressed together in the small space, Korra’s body warm against hers, the smell of salt and sunscreen and strawberry shampoo hanging heavy in the air, and Asami forgets how to breathe altogether.

Korra shifts one shoulder and the moment passes. 

Asami presses her fingers against the edge of the register and listens for a moment. She’s always taken time to listen to machines; somehow it helps her to understand how they work and what’s gone wrong. Her father always used to joke that she was a machine whisperer.

Her father…

Asami shakes off the memories pushing down around her, reaches for the edge of the register, finds a catch in the metal. She slides her finger against it, and the register flies open. 

Bolin lets out a whistle, and Mako smiles quietly. Korra’s expression is a raised eyebrow and an annoyed frown, grudgingly impressed. 

“Check it out,” Asami says with a grin. “Rich tourists know a thing or two.”

“Okay, so you can fix a machine just fine,” Korra scoffs. “Big deal.” She turns her head, but Asami catches the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. 

“So you’re staying at the Ember Island Inn, right?” Mako asks, arranging a stack of stickers next to the cash register.

Asami frowns. “Yeah, actually. How’d you know?”

“Easy,” Korra laughs. “It’s the only hotel in town.”

“And,” Bolin adds, “it’s a total dump. I was a buser there when I was like, sixteen, and the things I’ve seen there? _Horrifying_.” He shivers exaggeratedly. 

“It hasn’t been that bad,” Asami says fairly, because it hasn’t. It’s nothing like the fancy, polished, high-end accommodations she’s used to - the kind that shine so brightly, it almost hides the emptiness - but so far, she doesn’t have any real complaints about the place.

Except for the broken air conditioner. She’s got a lot of complaints about that one.

“Well,” Korra says, “I can get you back there, if you’re ready to go.”

“Alright,” Asami says, a little reluctantly. She _isn’t_ ready, not really. She doesn’t want to leave this shop, doesn’t want to leave the realm of calm that seems to exist within these pale green walls. The surfboards and overhead fans and smooth wooden floors and Korra’s pale blue eyes feel like they’re holding her in, like they’re keeping her safe. 

She silently resolves to come back tomorrow, whether they want her or not.

Korra tips her head towards the door. Asami follows her out, smiling as Bolin waves goodbye to her.

They don’t talk much as they walk. Asami tries to remember the route, but mostly she’s concentrating on the space between her arm and Korra’s, the way they unintentionally fall into step as they make their way along streets full of heat and sunlight and unfamiliar faces. 

“Have you always lived here?” she asks as they round the corner, turning onto the street where the hotel is located.

“No,” Korra says. “I was born at the South Pole.”

“Why the move, then? Got sick of the cold?"

Korra hums in agreement. “Something like that.”

They reach the door of the hotel and Korra pulls it open, holding it for Asami with an expression of mock deference. As Asami pauses on the threshold, she’s struck by how perfectly Korra fits here, too; even sunburnt, sandy, and barefoot, her hair windswept and messy, she seems to belong at the door of this dated three-star hotel just as much as she does behind the counter of her surf shop.

“Thank you,” Asami says. “Uh - am I going to see you again?”

The question is stupidly eager, almost desperate, vulnerable and hopeful in a way that she’s not used to being, but Korra just grins.

“If you’re lucky,” she says. She steps back, lets the door swing closed between them. 

Asami stands where she is and watches through the glass as Korra saunters off down the street, sunbeams falling around her like she’s pulling the light towards herself.

//

When Asami wakes up the next morning, everything has gone to hell.

She goes downstairs for breakfast, and she’s barely been seated when a group of journalists appears on the other side of the windows that separate the hotel’s restaurant from the lobby. They push up against the glass, reminding Asami of the seagullhawks squabbling on the beach, cameras flashing like metal reflected in the sun. 

Asami lowers her head and buries her face in her menu, wishing she could hide somewhere. She misses the time when she was on the edge of the spotlight, not in the center of it.

A waitress approaches her table, setting a pitcher of water down. “Hello there, can I get you anything to start with?”

“How about a restraining order?” Asami mumbles. 

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Never mind. Just a black coffee, I guess.”

The waitress nods and heads off towards the kitchen, and Asami sneaks another look at the journalists, who appear to be purposefully blocking the doorway in order to grab her on the way out. She wonders if the restaurant staff would let her just sit in here all day.

“Psst,” a voice calls from the hallway. Asami turns to see Mako standing there, dressed in faded jean shorts and a shirt emblazoned with the words “Avatar Surf.” 

“Mako!” Asami exclaims, glad to see a friendly face. “What are you doing in here?”

“I’m friends with one of the cooks here, so they let me in the back door. Thought you could use a hand avoiding the press.” Mako rubs the back of his neck, looking embarrassed and something slightly sharper - nervous. “Do you want to come back to the shop for breakfast? We’re not as fancy as the hotel, but Bolin does cook a mean toaster waffle.”

“I’d love to,” Asami says gratefully. “Did you say something about a back door?”

Mako waves her over to the hallway and pushes open a door next to the kitchen, and they slip out of the hotel, the journalists and their camera flashes already fading in Asami’s vision.

“Thanks for that,” Asami says as they walk. The morning is damp and heavy, not quite turned to dry heat yet, and Asami pulls in a deep breath, lets the cool air sink into her lungs. 

“No problem,” Mako says. 

They’re quiet for a moment, but not uncomfortably so. Asami lets herself study Mako, her glance darting sideways to take note of his neat, dark hair and golden eyes. Like Korra, he seems to belong in these streets as if he’s a part of the island itself.

She thinks he seems like the kind of guy she’d like to be friends with. 

“So,” Mako says at last. “Why do you have an entourage of news reporters following your every move?” 

Asami stumbles over the question like a crack in the cobblestones, mind racing to find an answer. She doesn’t want to tell him, doesn’t want to tell anyone. It’s not that she thinks he’d sell her out; far from it, actually. She just doesn’t want it to make things different between them.

So far, Korra and Bolin and Mako have treated her like a normal person, not the face of a company. Asami wants to keep it that way. 

(She hasn’t felt like herself for a while anyways, so she doesn’t see why she should have to be herself, either.)

“Oh, you know,” Asami says breezily. “Just - ” 

“Just CEO things?”

Asami really does stumble this time; physically, literally, stumbling over a raised patch in the road and falling forward. She manages to catch herself, ignoring the arm that Mako holds out to steady her.

“You know who I am?” Asami asks. “Does Korra - do the others know?”

“No,” Mako says with a reassuring smile. “Bolin is pretty clueless, and Korra - well, if she knew, it wouldn’t mean much to her anyways. She doesn’t exactly keep up with news or technology, especially not the kind that your company produces.”

Asami tips her head to one side, intrigued. “Really?”

Mako laughs quietly. “Really. She doesn’t even know how to drive.”

“Oh,” Asami says. She thinks of her childhood, her youth, days and nights spent sitting behind a wheel, time rushing by the windows of her speeding vehicles like it’s nothing more than a breeze. She can’t imagine not being able to drive.

But that was back in Republic City, and here on Ember Island, where life is slower and simpler and lingers in leisurely light, Asami can understand why it might not be important. 

“Still,” she continues. “Don’t tell them, okay?”

“I won’t,” Mako promises. “Hey, we’re here.”

The door to Avatar Surf is open despite the earliness of the morning, and as Asami steps inside, she notices that the floor is already sandy. Bolin is sitting by the counter, waxing the top of a surfboard, but Korra is nowhere in sight. Asami tries to suppress the disappointment rising up in her.

“Asami!” Bolin yells, jumping to his feet and folding her into a hug. Asami awkwardly pats him on the back, not quite sure what to do. She’s never been a big hugger.

“Alright, alright,” Mako says, coming to her rescue. “Down, boy.”

“Sorry,” Bolin says, stepping back. His hair is a mess of black strands, curling at the tips, a smear of wax pushed across one side of his nose. “I’m just glad you’re back. You seem really cool, and also the register is sticking again…”

Mako hits him on the head with an empty wax box - _“why are you asking her to fix things, she doesn’t work here, leave her alone” -_ and Asami is reaching over to fix the register when Korra walks in wearing a faded t shirt and those same blue lifeguard shorts, hair tangled and salty and dripping on her shirt, her left hand holding a syrupy mess of waffle.

Asami slams the register drawer shut on her own hand. 

“Ow, _fuck_ ,” she mutters, trying her best not to blush. 

“Not you again,” Korra sighs, though her smile contradicts her words. “Mako, Bolin, why’d you let her in?”

“What?” Bolin protests. “Asami is awesome.” 

Korra rolls her eyes. “Right. Anyways, shouldn’t you be heading to the ferry to pick up those new boards?”

“I was going to,” Bolin says indignantly, swiping the waffle from Korra’s hand and taking a bite. Asami winces as syrup covers the side of his face, matching the wax smear. “But the truck wouldn’t start.”

“I can take a look at it,” Asami offers. “If that’s okay with you, that is.” She glances at Korra, gauging the reaction, and is relieved to see the shorter girl smiling.

“Go ahead,” Korra says. “This is one thing that I have to admit is beyond me. I - ” 

“Can’t even drive, I know.” 

Korra hits Mako on the shoulder. “You told her?” 

“It’s not a big deal,” Mako points out. “Over half the people on Ember Island don’t even have cars.” 

Korra just huffs in annoyance, and Bolin pulls Asami outside to the driveway, where a light blue pick-up truck sits dejectedly next to a patch of blooming wisteria. 

“This is your car?” Asami asks, wondering what century the vehicle is from. It looks like it’s held together by little more than rusty bolts and hope. 

“Yeah,” Bolin sighs. “I wanted to get a convertible, but Korra said it wasn’t practical.” 

“Well, she has a point there. Convertibles aren’t great for transporting surfboards or whatever else you guys have.” 

Bolin waves a dismissive hand. “Not the point. Do you know how many girls I’d get if I had a convertible?”

“Still none,” Korra says from the doorway, where she’s leaning against the woodwork, finishing her waffle. “Shut up and let Asami get on with it.” 

Bolin pouts. Asami shoots Korra an amused look and pops open the hood of the truck. 

The engine is old and slightly rusted, the parts outdated and dirty, but underneath is the comforting familiarity, the smell of oil and metal and gasoline. Asami inhales deeply and thinks about how much she’s missed this. Since she’s taken over as the head of Future Industries, she’s barely had time to tinker and invent and fix the way she used to. 

“How bad is it?” Korra asks. 

Asami snorts. “This is easy. Give me fifteen minutes.” 

She gets to work sorting out cables and cleaning parts, not caring about the heat of the sun or the shimmer of metallic grease imprinting itself onto her shirt. This is what she’s good at; this is what she was born to do.

Time blurs by, minutes slipping away like the sweat dripping down her skin. Asami slides underneath the truck to check one last thing, grateful for the brief respite in the shade. 

“Hey,” Korra’s voice says from somewhere to her left. Asami moves halfway out from under the truck, startled to see Korra crouching down next to her. 

“Everything good?” Korra asks. 

“Yeah,” Asami breathes out. Her hair is sticking to her face in sweaty strands, motor oil smeared across her hands, the smell of gasoline surrounding them, and she’s suddenly all too aware of how much of a mess she looks. 

Korra just smiles at her, a quirk of happiness at the corners of her mouth. Asami’s breath hitches for a moment. 

“Here,” Korra says, wiping a streak of oil from Asami’s forehead. The touch is gentle, Korra’s hand steady and warm against her skin. Asami blinks, and Korra smirks at her. 

“Come out from under there,” she says, “before you get completely covered in this stuff.” 

Asami slides out and gets to her feet, then opens the door of the truck and turns the keys in the ignition. A splutter, a cough, a brief ticking noise, and the engine roars to life. 

“Yes!” Bolin yelps, running out to see what’s happening. He points to Asami theatrically, like he’s the master of ceremonies at her coronation. “That’s it. You’re hired. Officially.” 

Korra frowns. “Bolin, you can’t hire people. This is my store.” 

“I don’t care,” Bolin insists. “She’s hired.” 

Korra sighs deeply, then turns to Asami. “Bolin is an idiot, but...do you want the job?” 

“Really?” 

“Really.” 

Asami considers for about half a second. She’s never worked a job like this in her life - before she took over at Future Industries, she’d never worked a job at all - but she likes everything about Avatar Surf, and she likes Mako and Bolin and - 

And Korra is standing there in front of her, expression expectant, eyes bluer than the sky, and Asami knows that there’s no way she could ever turn this down. 

“Yeah,” Asami says. “I do.” 

“You’re lucky we’re short-staffed this summer,” Korra mumbles. “I wouldn’t hire just anyone.” She pauses for a moment, then adds, “and if you’re going to work here, I’m gonna have to teach you how to surf.”

Asami just smiles. 

//

She heads back to the hotel that afternoon, her head stuffed with information about board wax and wetsuits and how to take stock, but behind all that, in the deepest part of her mind, are blue eyes and a crooked grin. 

Opal calls and asks how it’s going, and Asami tells her that she has a job now. 

_“Seriously?”_ Opal says, her voice somewhere between amused and annoyed. _“You already have a job. Back here, with us.”_

“I know,” Asami says. She can picture her friend’s face perfectly; eyebrows raised, mouth set in a frown, eyes dark with frustration. Opal’s never been one to hold back when she’s annoyed, and her emotions carry over the phone line as strongly as if she were in the room. 

_“So what makes this one so special?”_

Asami runs her finger along the edge of her phone, lost for words. 

“I can’t explain it,” she says. “I just think this is something I need to do.” 

_“Okay,”_ Opal sighs. _“Just come home soon. I can only deal with so many calls from Varrick before my head explodes.”_

“Got it,” Asami replies. “I’ll do my best.” 

_“It’s not healthy to have an exploded head, you know. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience.”_

“Right. I’ll keep that in mind.”

 _“And - ”_ Opal hesitates for a moment. _“I got a call from the...well, from your father.”_

Asami bites down on her lip, hard enough to taste traces of copper on her tongue. Salt and bitterness, pushing through her mouth. “I don’t want to hear about it.”

 _“This isn’t the first time,”_ Opal says. _“You know that.”_

“Goodbye, Opal,” Asami says. She hangs up and then leans forward, arms on the windowsill, looking out over the town to where the ocean stretches out into infinity, the dark waters mixing with the black of the night. 

She thinks of Republic City nights, tinged with orange and yellow glows fading into the clouds like candles against the dark, light polluting like toxic waste, and wonders how these two places can be under the same sky. 

//

Asami shows up at the shop early the next morning, eager to get started. She’s met with a sleepy Korra leaning against the counter, hair slightly matted down on one side, still wearing those blue lifeguard shorts. 

Korra takes one look at her and laughs. “You know, I kind of thought you were going to stop dressing like a businesswoman now that you’re working here.”

Asami glances down at herself, straightens the collar of her button-down. “I have a bathing suit on under this.” 

“Still…”

“Okay, I get it,” Asami says, a little self-conscious now. “I didn’t really think to bring vacation clothes. Actually, I don’t think I really _have_ any vacation clothes.” 

(It’s slightly embarrassing to admit, but it’s something that comes of a lifetime sheltered from all but the most expensive areas of life; blazers and polos at boarding school, pantsuits in the boardroom, suit jackets in the penthouse of Future Industries, years of dressing to impress and intimidate.) 

“Yeah, we’ll have to fix that,” Korra says decisively. “But for now, the bathing suit’s good enough. Let’s go.” 

Ten minutes later they’re walking down the beach, Asami half-covered in a wetsuit and carrying a heavy foam-top board under her arm while Korra brings along her lighter, shorter board. 

“All beginners start with foamies,” Korra tells her as they walk. 

Asami shifts the board, feeling the side dig into her ribs. “What about those cool short ones? Like your board.” 

Korra smirks. “You’ll have to practice a while before you get to one of those.” 

Asami raps her knuckles against the foam of her board. “Can I do cool tricks on this?” 

“Uh, no,” Korra says, the corners of her mouth curving up in amusement. “But you _can_ catch a wave, so that’s where we’re starting.” 

At the water’s edge, Korra sets down the boards and shows Asami how to attach the leash to her back foot. 

“Most people surf with their left foot forward, leash on their dominant foot,” Korra explains. “When you surf with your right foot forward, like I do, that’s called riding goofy style.” 

Asami grins at her. “Suits you.” 

“Very funny. Anyways…” Korra steps forward into the water, pushes her board along with her. “Come on. Let’s paddle out past the break - that’s what we call the waves near shore.” 

Asami lies down on her board and follows Korra, her arm movements wild and imprecise in comparison to Korra’s methodical strokes. Korra moves through the water like it’s air, like she’s part of it, like she was born to control it. Easy. Effortless.

“Are you always out here this early?” Asami asks, trying her best to distract herself from the soreness already creeping up her shoulders.

“Early?” Korra laughs. “It’s already eight. Sometimes I come out here at four or five.” 

Asami is about to mention how insane that is, but then she thinks back to the late nights and early mornings she’s spent in her workshop, tinkering with machines, sketching out designs, and realizes that she’s no better.

Korra is just as intense as she is, fixated and focused on what she loves, and Asami kind of loves that.

“Okay, here,” Korra says, flipping herself up to sit astride her board. Asami copies her, watching the way that drops of water roll slowly down Korra’s body, clinging to her like they’re reluctant to fall. “So, the most important part of surfing isn’t actually standing up or balancing. It’s about catching the waves right.”

“How do you do that?” Asami asks, studying the waves that are gently rocking them up and down with each swell. 

“Start paddling before it’s really formed,” Korra says. “If there’s a white crest, that means it’s already breaking, and it’s too late to catch. Paddle until you feel the nose of the board start to push down, and then pop up and balance.”

“Uh - ” 

“It’s all in the moment,” Korra says. “You’ll find it. It’s the feeling that you’re right where you should be, right when you should be. And that’s when you rise.”

Asami nods, a little uncertain. She’s used to things fitting together and working in a methodical, logical way. Surfing seems to be less about precision and logic, and more about feeling and instinct; she’s not sure that she’ll get used to that.

“Here,” Korra says. “I’ll catch one first, you can watch.” 

“Sounds good,” Asami says. “I’ve always been a visual learner.”

Korra winks at her, and Asami feels herself melting, bones collapsing, synapses failing, unaware of anything in the world besides Korra's bright blue eyes and perfect smile. 

“Watch carefully,” Korra says, and there’s no way that Asami could do anything else.

Then Korra is lying down on her board, looking over her shoulder at the incoming waves. She starts paddling, slicing through the water just ahead of the wave, letting it curl over the back of her board. She tips forward, leaning onto the wave the way she leans against doorways and counters and lifeguard chairs, still lying down. The wave keeps pushing forward, and when Korra pops up onto her board, Asami can almost feel it in her chest, like a physical thing - the rightness of the timing, the perfection of the moment, of _Korra_. 

Korra rides the wave in until she’s barely more than a blur against the shore, and Asami waits patiently while she paddles out again.

“Whoa,” Asami says when Korra’s back, breaths quick and light, hair wet, chest rising and falling like the tides. “That was cool.”

“I know,” Korra grins.

“Oh my god, you’re so full of yourself.”

“I know,” Korra repeats, pushing a hand against Asami’s arm. Asami has never been the most tactile person, and simple physical contact sometimes feels like burning weight, but it’s different with Korra. Asami thinks she likes it, likes the way that Korra touches her casually and easily, delicately, her fingers landing on Asami’s skin the way that butterflies land on flowers.

“So,” Korra continues. “Let’s see you try.”

“Okay,” Asami says. “But don’t expect much.”

“Don’t worry,” Korra says. “I’m not.”

Asami splashes water at her playfully, then lies down on her board and stares at the waves behind her shoulder, hoping that she’ll see something in them other than a powerful curl of water, rushing in to humiliate her. 

Five minutes pass, then ten. Korra’s trying not to smile, and Asami’s face is burning hotter than the sand on the beach.

“Okay, okay,” Korra says finally, taking pity on her. “Take this one.” She nods towards a wave coming towards them, gives Asami’s board a little shove towards the shore.

Asami lets the wave carry her along until she feels something; a key change, a beat drop, a moment shifted out of time. That feeling of rightness. She pushes herself up and then she’s standing, and then - 

Then she’s flying.

And she’s flown before, countless times - gliders and airships, machines over the earth, gears and metal pushing through the sky - but this feels different. This is salt spray and wind in her hair, flight without borders, without walls. Just her and the air and the waves, something pure, something different. 

Something new. 

_And maybe that’s what I need,_ Asami thinks as she slows to a stop in the foamy rush of knee-deep water by the shore. She hops off her board and starts back out, past the break. _Something new._

Korra lets out a yell and raises her arms to the sky, grinning at Asami with a brilliance that’s like the sun itself. Asami doesn’t even try to hold back the smile spreading across her face.

“You’re a natural,” Korra says as Asami glides up to her.

“Well, yeah,” Asami grins. “I’m pretty good at most stuff, once I put my mind to it.”

“Humble, too,” Korra comments. “Want to catch another one?”

“Of course.”

They surf for about an hour, until Asami is warm and tired in the morning sun and she finally calls it quits. Korra doesn’t argue, even though she’s probably out here for hours at a time usually. 

They’re heading up the beach, pushing past the sand dunes near the boardwalk, when the reporters show up again, crowding the parking lot by the hotel. Asami spots them looking towards her, flocking like birds of prey to a helpless target, and feels her mood drop like the crest of a wave, breaking inside her.

“Fuck,” she mutters, her board suddenly feeling a hundred times heavier.

Korra gives her a quick, considering glance. “Them again?”

“Yeah,” Asami sighs. “They’re staying in the same hotel as me. It’s kind of hard to avoid them.”

“Well - ” Korra starts to say, but she doesn’t get a chance to finish her sentence. One reporter, bolder than the others, runs up to them. Asami thinks of a lone wolf, leader of the pack, first to charge for the kill.

“Asami - ” he begins to say, and Asami sucks in a quick breath, ready to defend herself with words or fists, whichever comes easiest, but she doesn’t have to.

“Back off,” Korra snaps, stepping in front of her, suddenly seeming a foot taller.

The reporter looks at her, eyes small and sharp and gleaming. “Who are you? A friend of Asami’s?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Korra says, her tone low and dangerous. “Now leave, or I _will_ get you kicked off this beach.”

The reporter scoffs. “What for?”

Korra tips her chin back, her face blazing and defiant, and somewhere in the back of her mind, Asami registers how hot that is. 

“Let’s see,” she says slowly. “Disturbing the public peace, harassing an innocent woman, _and_ invading the habitat of an endangered species should check the boxes, don’t you think?”

It’s only then that Asami takes in the orange tape wrapped around the sand in front of the dunes, the signs covered in bold lettering and illustrations of baby sea turtleducks. 

The reporter looks down at his feet, which are dangerously close to what looks like a nest in the sand, and slowly steps back, his hands raised in surrender.

“That’s what I thought,” Korra says. “Now get the fuck away from us.”

She turns and walks away, and Asami can only follow, feeling the blood rush in her veins like a wave to the shore, hot and fast and unstoppable.

//

“Those assholes,” Korra mutters, once they’re back at the shop. She props her board against the wall, leans Asami’s next to it. “Harassing you, endangering the sea turtle ducks…”

“The sea turtleducks being the more important of those two, obviously?” 

“ _Obviously_. I’ve got priorities.”

Asami grins. Korra dusts the sand off her hands, then turns to her. “We can let Bolin deal with this. Do you want a toaster waffle?”

It’s such a simple offer, such a thoughtless question, but to Asami, it feels like something more important. She’s not used to being offered things without servile deference or the expectation of reciprocation hanging in the balance.

“I’d love a toaster waffle,” she says, and follows Korra into the shop.

There’s a side door near the racks of wetsuits, with a faded sign tacked to it - EMPLOYES ONLY. Asami winces at the misspelling, and Korra rolls her eyes in exasperation. 

“Bolin,” she sighs. “I’ve told him a dozen times to let Mako do the signs. Anyways, come on.” She pushes the door open to reveal a wide expanse of grass and pale beige tiles surrounding a pool the color of Korra’s eyes, and beyond that, a small pink house with a porch overlooking the beach.

Korra leads her across the grass, soft and springy beneath their feet, and Asami looks to her right, where a tall garden of multicolored wildflowers forms a makeshift barrier between the pool and the beach. 

“This is our house,” Korra says, stepping onto the porch and pushing open a slightly cracked screen door. “Mako and Bolin and I all bought it together.”

Asami nods, and as they walk inside, she’s hit with a wave of something she can only describe as _missing._ She’s never had this kind of house, never lived in a place that felt like home instead of an empty mansion, never had family pictures like the ones of Korra and Mako and Bolin that are stuck to the walls. 

She shakes off the feeling, pushing it out like the tides, and looks around. The space inside is small but bright, sunlight pouring in from the open windows, and the walls are a pale yellow color. 

Korra steps over to the kitchen, tucked into a corner that opens into a living room with mismatched furniture and a worn-out sofa, and starts rummaging through the freezer. Asami spots several magnets on the fridge; one from Avatar Surf, one with the same three white spirals that fly on the surf zone flag, one shaped like a big white dog. There are piles of takeout containers and a few shirts lying around the room, as well as a large chunk of board wax, and the floor is slightly sandy underfoot. 

“Excuse the mess,” Korra says, popping a couple waffles into the toaster oven. “I hate cleaning, and Bolin flat-out refuses to do it, so Mako is the only one who ever picks up around here.”

“I kind of like it,” Asami says. “Makes it feel homey. Lived-in.”

“Hm,” Korra says, considering. “I didn’t think you’d be the kind of girl who’d like any kind of mess.”

“Pfft,” Asami snorts. “I like you, don’t I?”

Korra laughs and crosses the room to a beat-up speaker next to the sofa, where an outdated phone is resting on the charging dock. Asami is willing to bet that the thing isn’t even capable of an internet search. Korra fiddles with the system for a moment, and then a song comes pouring out, bright and upbeat. 

“The Cure?” Asami asks.

“Yeah, is that okay with you? Mako and Bolin say that I listen to too much old music, but if you’d ever heard Bolin’s playlists, you’d know that I’m doing them a favor.”

“Classic,” Asami says. Korra pulls the waffles out of the toaster and slides one over to Asami, sticky and sweet, syrup drizzled over the paper plate that it sits on. 

Toaster waffles. Bright, early-morning sunlight. _Friday I’m in Love_ by The Cure.

Asami smiles to herself, and takes a bite of waffle. 

//

Later that afternoon, back in the store, while Asami helps Mako unbox flip-flops and Bolin perches on a stool with a pen and a crossword puzzle, Korra just leans against the counter with that devastatingly lazy smile on her face.

“You sure look happy,” Mako comments. “What’s up with that?”

“Nothing,” Korra says, and gives Asami a quick glance, a brief moment of eye contact, blue meeting green.

Asami bites down on her lip and looks away, not trusting herself to react correctly.

A customer comes in and Korra walks over to help them flip through a selection of board shorts. Asami tries not to stare in her direction.

Mako nudges her. “Hey, Asami?”

“Yeah?"

“Is there something going on here?”

“Going on where?” Asami asks, and oh god, she’s the opposite of subtle. Years of faked disinterest and cold impassivity and poker faces in boardrooms have nothing on her stupid, stupid reaction to Korra. It’s like a Pavlovian response; embarrassingly inevitable.

Three days in, and Asami is already so far gone.

Mako waves a flip-flop at her. “With you. You’ve been sitting here motionless, holding the box, for like, five minutes.”

“Oh. Right.” Asami shoves the box at him, then gets up to grab the bottle of water she left near the register. 

Bolin takes one look at her face, still bright red from blushing, and passes her the bottle of aloe vera they keep for sunburns. Asami leans over him to help him with the crossword puzzle.

And here in this small, sandy, sunlit shop, here with Mako sorting flip-flops and Bolin frowning over his crossword and Korra sneaking glances over her shoulder as she holds up pairs of shorts, Asami thinks she’s finally found a place that feels right to her. 

//

Korra lets her borrow a couple shirts, one with the Avatar Surf logo, another with those spiraling white circles, and Asami doesn’t think for a moment about refusing to wear something so casual, so unimpressive.

(She thinks the fact that they belong to Korra makes them impressive enough.)

//

When Opal calls her that night, Asami tries to hide what she’s feeling, but it doesn’t work even for a moment. Opal listens to her talk about her day for about ten seconds, and then asks who she met.

“What do you mean?” Asami asks, playing for time.

Her friend blows out a sigh of exasperation. _“Don’t even try that with me, Asami Sato. I know exactly what that tone of voice means.”_

Asami grudgingly admits that she’s right.

 _“I’m always right,”_ Opal says smugly. _“So tell me about her.”_

Asami thinks about the color blue, about faded lifeguard shorts, about waffles and The Cure and a crooked grin. 

_“_ I don’t even know where to start,” she says, and even she’s shocked at the sound of her own voice. Dazed. Dreamy. Lovestruck.

 _“Oh, great,”_ Opal groans. _“You’re never coming back now, are you.”_

//

“This is stupid,” Korra says a couple mornings later when Asami comes in, looking up from the board that she’s waxing. 

Asami pushes a hand through her hair, breathing a little heavily. She’d had to run out of the hotel like an Olympian sprinter after some of the more determined journalists had spotted her and decided to push their luck. “What is?” 

“You staying at the hotel. There’s still press there, and you already work here.”

“So?”

“So,” Korra says, “you should just stay with us. There are only two bedrooms, but I could make space on my floor, or you could have the couch...”

Asami pauses, mouth hanging halfway open, probably looking like a complete idiot.

“I mean, you don’t have to,” Korra says quickly. “You probably don’t want to share a house with us, anyways. I mean, you saw how clean it is, and Bolin snores really badly, and there’s only one bathroom, and - ” 

“No, I - ” Asami takes a deep breath, forcing the rest of her sentence out in a steady tone that doesn’t match the way she’s feeling inside. (Thunderstruck. Electrified. Like someone set off fireworks in her bloodstream. 

Like Korra just offered to let Asami stay in her _bedroom_.)

“I’d like that,” she says. “Staying with you, I mean.”

Korra nods in relief, and Asami can’t let her off the hook that easily, so she leans up against Korra, giving her a little shove. “You’ll still bring me room service, right?”

“In your dreams,” Korra laughs. Then, a minute later: “I guess I could spare a toaster waffle or two.”

//

It takes one trip to move her things from the hotel to Korra’s house, and Asami ends up taking the couch. 

She’s not sure whether she’s relieved or disappointed about that.

“This is great!” Bolin says cheerfully, setting a stack of clean sheets and towels on the couch for her. Asami starts fitting one of the sheets onto the couch, not exactly sure what she’s doing. She may be a professional engineer, but she’s never really had to make her own bed before. There’s always been servants and house staff to do that for her, or the cleaners at boarding school...

“Seriously, I’m excited,” Bolin continues, stepping on the end of the sheet that’s now trailing on the floor. "It'll be like a sleepover." 

Korra snorts. “What are you, ten years old?”

Mako pulls out a luggage rack from somewhere and places Asami’s suitcase on top of it. Korra watches in amusement as Asami struggles valiantly to tuck the sheets in properly.

“You’re really terrible at making a bed,” Korra says, and even without looking at her, Asami can hear that crooked grin in her voice. 

“This is a sofa,” Asami grumbles, not wanting to look like a complete idiot in front of Korra, knowing that it’s already a lost cause.

Korra steps behind her and reaches around her body, grabbing the end of the sheet, leaning up against Asami with an easy movement. Asami’s breath hitches.

“Here,” Korra says. She’s warm and her touch is gentle, and Asami’s heart is a winged thing in her chest, fluttering, wanting to break free. “Fold the corners like this, then tuck it under.”

Asami turns her head slightly and Korra is right there, eyes bright, mouth curved upwards. It would only take the slightest lean in.

Bolin drops something behind them, and Mako starts laughing at him, and the noise pushes between them, pushes Korra away from her. Korra finishes with the bottom sheet and reaches for a blanket.

“Good, right?” she asks, and Asami nods, thinking, _good, good._

They spend the afternoon in the shop, and when the day is over, Asami gets to go home with them. With Korra. 

She almost feels guilty about it, about considering this faded little house to be the home that her family mansion and penthouse apartment never have been, but she ignores that. 

Mako goes out for a while and comes home with takeout containers from Fan’s Noodles. The four of them sit on the floor of the living room, and Korra adjusts the volume on the stereo while Bolin tries to throw mini dumplings in the air and catch them in his mouth. 

A song starts playing, brassy and bold. Asami smiles, recognizing it, as Korra sits down next to her, shoving her shoulder slightly. 

“Move over,” Korra says affectionately, but even after Asami makes room, Korra stays leaning against her. She dips her chopsticks into Asami’s container of food, and Asami doesn’t stop her. 

Seaweed noodles. Korra, warm and comfortable against her. _Free Fallin’_ by Tom Petty. 

Bolin throws a dumpling too far and it smacks into Asami’s face. She throws it back at him. 

//

Asami wakes up sometime between the dark of night and the dim light of morning, unsure of exactly why she’s awake. She rolls over on the couch, tilting her head towards the sliding screen door that leads out to the back porch, and sees a shadowy figure standing there, pushing the door closed.

“Korra?” Asami asks, her voice coming out as a raspy whisper.

The door opens a little and Korra’s head appears around the frame. “Shit, did I wake you up? Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Asami says, even though the barely-there, dim grey light coming in the windows indicates that it’s somewhere around _way too early in the morning_ o’clock. “What are you doing?”

“Going surfing.”

Asami remembers their first surfing lesson, remembers Korra saying that she went out at four or five some mornings, and pushes herself up from the couch. “Can I come?”

Korra looks surprised. “Sure, if you want to.” She leans against the doorway to wait while Asami goes to change.

They walk down the beach, the air cool and the sky not yet lit up, Asami letting her board drag slightly on the ground. 

“Fuck,” she mutters, once they’re wading into the water. “Is it always this cold at four am?”

Korra takes one look at her, eyes gleaming, and Asami takes a step back. “Oh, no. I don’t know what that look is for, but stay away - ” 

Korra jumps at her, pushing her backwards into the water, and Asami yelps as she falls into the cold waves. 

“Asshole,” she mumbles, with no real bite to it. “Running me over the day we first met wasn’t enough for you?” She pushes a handful of water forward and splashes Korra, who doesn’t bat an eyelash. 

“You’ll get used to it,” Korra says. “Let’s go.”

Asami catches five or six waves, riding in to shore with Korra flying along next to her. She barely manages to stay upright because she’s balancing and concentrating, but more than that, she’s staring at Korra and her messy hair and her stupid blue lifeguard shorts.

“You’re getting good at this,” Korra says as they’re paddling back out between sets.

“Good enough to ditch the foam top?” Asami asks hopefully.

Korra splashes her gently. “Not yet.”

And it’s strange, because Asami’s always had everything she wanted - almost everything - but somehow, hearing Korra deny her is more satisfying than having her wishes fulfilled by some fawning servant or a businessman looking for Future Industries’ support. 

“Okay, then,” Asami says, sitting up on her board. “Will you do a trick for me?”

Korra grimaces. “A trick? Like what?”

“I don’t know, something cool. You’re the expert here.”

“Oh, so you think I’m good?”

Asami rolls her eyes. “You know I think you’re good.”

“Yeah, I do,” Korra smirks. “Just like to hear you say it.”

Asami pushes Korra’s board, shoving the other girl away from her. “Just shut up and surf.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Korra says, throwing her a mock salute. Asami recognizes it as a joking imitation of the ones that Mako gives Korra sometimes, when she’s being especially bossy, and blushes just a little because it’s stupidly cute. 

Korra pushes off, catches the next wave, and flies towards the shore, travelling diagonally inside the curl of the wave like it’s a special place made just for her. Asami thinks that’s the trick, and has to admit that it’s pretty cool, but then Korra turns and flips up over the top of the wave, completing a 180 before falling back to the water and riding the wave the rest of the way to shore. 

Asami’s mouth hangs slightly open, her breath getting shallow as she watches. 

Korra waves to her from the shore, her arms a signal beacon, and Asami rides in after her. 

She gets completely rag-dolled and ends up drifting to shore lying down on her board, and when Korra makes her way over, Asami just stares up at her until Korra offers her a hand and yanks her to her feet again.

//

After the surfing, Korra brings Asami to the beachside diner for breakfast. 

“I know that you’ve still got your little fan club running around,” she says, leaning back against the side of the booth - always leaning - “but don’t worry. I told Suyin not to let any paps in.” 

Asami follows her gaze towards the counter, where a grey-haired, kind-looking woman is pouring hot cups of coffee. The woman looks over at her and smiles. 

Asami unfolds a menu, staring at the list of plain but delicious food. “What are you getting?”

“Um,” Korra hums. “Waffles, probably.”

“What?” Asami raises an eyebrow, perplexed. “You eat waffles every morning. Shitty toaster waffles, sure, but still - _every morning_. You don’t want to switch it up a little?” 

Korra thinks about it for a moment, then grins. “Nope,” she says, and Asami has to laugh as well. 

Suyin takes their orders and brings them massive plates piled high with food. Korra doesn’t hesitate for a moment, picking up waffles and shoving them into her mouth with her bare hands. 

“No utensils,” Asami mumbles. “No shoes, even inside the restaurant. You’re like a cavewoman.”

“Shoes are overrated,” Korra says, her mouth still full of waffle. “See that _no shoes, no shirt, no service_ sign on the door? Suyin actually added a note to it saying that I’m the exception.”

Asami scoffs. “No, she didn’t.” 

“Did too.”

Asami takes a bite of eggs, watching as Korra demolishes the plate of waffles in front of her. 

“So,” Korra says, once there’s half a waffle left on her plate. “You’re getting pretty good at your job.”

Asami tips her head to one side curiously. “You think?” 

“Definitely,” Korra says, nodding emphatically. “For a rich city girl, anyways.”

“Hey, watch it,” Asami says, flicking a blueberry at her. She can tell just from the crinkles around her eyes, the set of her mouth, that Korra isn’t making fun of her.

She wonders when she learned to read Korra so well.

Korra catches the blueberry in her mouth without even blinking, and chews it slowly. “Really,” she says, more serious now. “You’re great at this job. And you’re great - ” She blushes for a moment, and Asami doesn’t even have time to unpack that, because Korra’s next question hits her like a gut punch. “But I just want to ask - how long are you staying?”

Asami sets down her fork, her appetite suddenly vanished. Korra looks at her, waiting for an answer, and Asami almost wants to turn away. Those damn blue eyes make everything so much more intense. It’s like staring at a storm, or a waterfall, or the entire sky. 

“I don’t know,” Asami says at last. “I’m not planning on leaving soon, though.”

“Good,” Korra says. “Just for that, you can be the one to take inventory today.”

Asami just shakes her head, but deep down, she’s starting to wonder how long she can possibly stay here.

On the way out of the diner, Asami glances at the typed notice on the door - _no shoes, no shirt, no service -_ and takes in the addition on the side, written in an elegant, slanting black cursive. _Korra is the exception to this rule._

Asami thinks that Korra could be the exception to a lot of rules.

//

Asami doesn’t want to think about Korra asking how long she’s staying, but unfortunately for her, Opal has the same question. 

“I know you’ve _met a girl_ ,” she says later that night, when Asami steps out onto the porch to call her. Her voice slides from singsong mockery to a more solemn tone. “And I know you deserve a break. You deserve that more than anything. But Asami, how long can you really expect to stay there?”

Asami blinks down at her bare feet, pressed against the weatherbeaten wooden steps of the porch. “It’s only been two weeks,” she says quietly. 

Two weeks of sun and sand and surf. Two weeks of lazy days and quiet nights, of afternoons spent flying through the waves, of takeout dinners with the four of them sprawled out on the floor, of Korra smiling at her crookedly while classic rock songs spill from the stereo speakers and a warm summer breeze rushes through the open windows.

Two weeks.

“I’m not worried about the time, really,” Opal says. “I’m worried about the depth.”

Asami laughs, the sound a little forced, a little painful, as it leaves her throat. “Now that sounds like a line from a bad mover.”

“Yeah, I stole it from one of Varrick's latest ones,” Opal admits, a hint of amusement creeping into her tone. “But seriously, Asami. I’m not worried about you being there for too long - okay, I am, I’ve got the press crawling up my ass and Future Industries is leaderless without you - but I’m even more worried about _why_ you’re there for too long.” 

“What do you mean?” Asami asks, unsure of whether she wants to hear the answer. 

“I’m worried that you’re going to get too attached,” Opal says, “and that you won’t want to come back.”

 _Too late,_ Asami’s heart says.

“Don’t worry about it,” her mouth says. 

Opal runs through the details of a trade deal run by Future Industries earlier that day, and only part of Asami is listening. Most of her is staring in through the screen door to where Korra is propped against the kitchen counter, mindlessly humming along to a song playing on the stereo.

Asami can’t look away.

Korra turns, catches her staring. Instead of laughing, she waves a hand. _Come in._

“Opal, I have to go,” Asami says. “I’ll call you later, okay?” 

Opal’s goodbye is lost in the slide of the screen door, and Asami folds herself inside, walks over to Korra.

“You wanted me?” she asks, and underneath that, she’s asking: _do you want me?_

She doesn’t know if Korra hears it or not, but for now, the asking is enough.

“Yeah,” Korra says, opening the fridge. “We still have some of those mochi cakes left. I know you like them, so I didn’t let Bolin finish them.” She hands Asami a pink box, and as the chorus of the song on the stereo rises, Asami feels her heart swell in response. 

Leftover mochi cakes. Korra, saving something just because she knows Asami likes it. _Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want_ by The Smiths. 

Asami takes one cake for herself and another for Korra, and she listens to Morrissey sing about it being a good time for a change. 

Here in the kitchen light, with Korra smiling at her, Asami has to agree.

//

Asami is behind the register the next day, sorting through the cash drawer. It’s not her favorite part of the job, since customer service isn’t her strong suit, but it beats unpacking the wetsuit shipments.

It’s just her and Korra in the shop today, Mako and Bolin being out on the water teaching a few local kids how to surf, and Asami is determined to make the most of this time.

Korra jumps up to sit on the counter, one of the Avatar Surf hats tipped at a rakish angle on her head. Asami shoves her away, but not off. 

“Hey, knock it off,” Korra says, swatting at Asami’s hand. “Does the owner of this store know that you abuse your fellow employees?” 

“Hm,” Asami says, playing along. “I think she’d be okay with it, given who I’m dealing with.” 

Korra laughs, leans forward, the hat tipping further to the side. 

“I mean, seriously,” Asami continues, trying not to break character. “How have you not been fired yet?” 

Korra’s head dips down until she’s almost resting against Asami’s shoulder, nothing between them but air and body heat, and Asami schools her breathing; one breath in, one breath out. She tries not to push herself an inch taller so that Korra will be touching her. 

The bell over the door rings, and Asami jerks back like something’s burned her. 

“Hi,” Korra calls out to the customer who’s just come in. Asami looks over and decides immediately that she doesn’t like them. 

The girl is tall, with dark hair and thick eyebrows and an air of superiority. Some people might call her attractive, Asami guesses - attractive in a bitchy, annoying, ugly way. 

Asami hates her on principle.

“What can I help you with?” she asks, eyes narrowing slightly as the girl walks up to the counter. 

“You can’t help me with anything, sugar,” the girl says, not even sparing her a glance. “ _You,_ on the other hand _-_ ” She winks at Korra. “I’m sure you could help me with a lot of things.” 

Korra looks surprised and a little confused, but not totally unreceptive to the blatantly obvious flirting. Asami grits her teeth, feeling her blood start to burn, pure lava flowing through her veins. 

“Oh, I, uh,” Korra stammers out, and Asami feels a hot flash of jealousy. Korra’s never stammered around _her_. 

(And she doesn’t really have a right to feel this way, but that’s the thing about jealousy: it doesn’t need justification in order to exist.) 

“I’m Kuvira,” the girl says, putting her hand on the counter, her fingers mere inches away from Korra’s leg. “What’s your name?”

Korra shifts subtly away from the girl’s hand, and Asami lets out a quiet breath of relief. Then she stops holding back.

“There’s a nametag on her shirt,” she snaps, barely able to refrain from adding _you illiterate moron_ onto the end of that sentence. “Do you actually want to buy anything, or are you gonna be leaving now?”

Kuvira looks at her properly for the first time, and one of her eyebrows rises. It’s quite a sight, like watching a mountain move. “Asami Sato?”

Her full name falls through the air like a deadweight, and Asami flinches. She glances at Korra’s face, scared of what she’ll see; wide blue eyes, open confusion, maybe a trace of recognition flickering there.

“Well,” Kuvira says. “I didn’t know that someone of your illustrious magnitude was on the island. I suppose I can’t compete with that.” She heads to the door, pauses for a moment before she steps outside. “I must say, I was shocked to hear about your father.” A parting shot, razor-sharp words thrown like weapons, and she’s gone.

Asami slouches forward and rests her head against the cash register, feeling like the bubble of safety that she’s built around herself on Ember Island has been destroyed.

Korra touches her shoulder, and Asami barely even registers it. “What just happened?”

“She recognized me,” Asami mutters. 

“Yeah, I know, but…” Korra trails off, and Asami looks up at her. “Recognized you as who?”

Asami laughs bitterly. “Asami Sato, CEO of Future Industries in Republic City. Pleased to meet you."

“Oh,” Korra says, and nothing more. 

“Oh?” Asami asks, praying that this won’t change things between them, knowing that she’d give up the entirety of Future Industries if it meant that Korra would still treat her the same. 

“So you’re like, rich,” Korra says.

“Yeah.”

“And famous.”

“In Republic City, at least.” Asami bites her lip nervously. “Does - does this change your opinion of me?”

Korra shrugs one shoulder. “No,” she says slowly, and Asami waits with bated breath. “I don’t want this to come off the wrong way, but I don’t really care that much. Whoever you are to Republic City, it doesn’t change who you are to me. Is that okay?”

“You have no idea how okay that is,” Asami says, and with every impulse in her body pushing her forward, she leans over to wrap her arms around Korra in a tight hug. “Thank you.”

Korra rests one hand on the back of her head for a moment as they hug, and the casual intimacy of such a simple gesture leaves Asami utterly wrecked in the best kind of way. Even after Korra pulls away, Asami can still feel her everywhere.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Korra repeats. “Although - ” She’s smiling now, and when Asami meets her gaze, it’s like looking into the sun. (Bright. Brilliant. Breathtaking.) “I might let you pay for breakfast next time.”

//

Asami is folding shirts when Bolin comes running into the shop, breathless, hair a windblown mess. She waits patiently while he bends over and gasps for air.

“Asami,” he says at last. “I need your help.” 

“With what?” 

Bolin grins at her, his green eyes bright with mischief. “How would you feel about crashing a date?”

Before she can even answer, he’s calling to Korra to watch the front, and then he’s sweeping Asami out the door.

//

“So let me get this straight,” Asami says, sliding into a seat at her side of the table. They’re sitting on the second floor of the local seafood restaurant, Asami still wondering how exactly she ended up here. “We’re here to spy on Mako?”

Bolin runs a hand through his hair, and Asami tries not to wince when it comes away sandy. “Not to spy on him! Just to...observe.” 

“You realize that’s basically spying.”

“Okay, I guess.” Bolin’s shoulders droop slightly. “But he didn’t tell me anything about this guy until this morning, when he was like ‘Oh by the way, I won’t be around today because I have a date with Wu,’ and then he ran out the door before I could make him tell me anything. So really, it’s not like I have a choice.” 

“Right,” Asami says dryly, picking up a menu just to have something to do with her hands. 

“Shhh,” Bolin hushes, gesturing towards a table on the lower level, visible from where they’re sitting. “There he is.” 

Asami turns to see Mako standing next to a guy about half his height, dressed in the fanciest green clothes she’s ever seen outside of charity balls back in Republic City. Mako, for his part, is dressed in a slightly-nicer-than-usual black button down with a worn collar, and even from where they’re sitting, Asami can tell that he’s nervous.

“Oh, man,” Bolin mutters. “If he keeps fiddling with that shirt collar, it’s just going to fall off in his hands.” 

The short guy says something and lays a hand on Mako’s arm as they sit down, and Mako laughs, running his hand through his hair the way Bolin did a few minutes ago. Asami notes the familiarity of the action, the brothers unconsciously mirroring each other.

“They look fine to me,” she says, flipping through the menu. “Are we actually ordering anything? Wow, this is...a lot of different types of shrimp.”

Bolin takes the menu from her, folds it up so that the cover is hidden and two of the pages are bent awkwardly. “While I’ve got you here, let’s talk about you and Korra.”

Asami blushes furiously, a rush of red heat springing to her cheeks “What about us? There’s nothing to talk about.” 

(Nothing except lingering touches and stolen stares and Asami’s constant, unwavering awareness of Korra’s presence in any room; a slow-burning sensation of warmth, the green curl of a wave, a crooked smile that sends Asami free falling…)

But Bolin can’t have picked up on any of that, Asami reasons. After all, this is the guy who’s currently trying to unpick the cravat-folded restaurant napkin to figure out how it works. The cloth is just sort of crumpling in his hands. 

“Nothing,” Bolin says, his voice a little softer now. “Just...I think you make her happy. I haven’t seen her happy in a while. Not like this.”

Asami exhales lightly. “Oh.” 

“Yeah,” Bolin says. “I think you should know, that’s all.” 

“I’m not staying here forever, Bolin,” Asami says, feeling the inevitable truth of the words pull her down like concrete blocks tied to her feet. “Even if I did - if she - it wouldn’t work, or it wouldn’t last…”

Bolin rests a hand on top of hers, his touch heavier than Korra’s but still warm and comforting, and Asami doesn’t feel the need to shy away from it.

“Maybe,” he says. “But you won’t know unless you try, will you?”

Asami is startled by this, startled by the way that the cliché yet wise advice falls from his lips, startled that Bolin’s enthusiastic optimism is actually making sense to her. 

“At the very least, you could teach her to drive,” Bolin says, grinning now. “I’m sick of fighting with the stick shift on that stupid truck. She should have to suffer along with me and Mako.”

Asami thinks about it: Korra in the seat next to her, the windows down, a third-dimensional space between them, held by the edges of the truck, in the most familiar of her elements. An open road in front of them, the sky stretching out beyond the glass of the windshield, looking out into infinity; Korra nothing but six inches and a heartbeat away from her.

“Maybe,” she says.

“Good.” Bolin tosses aside his napkin, which is now folded beyond salvage. He looks over the balcony to where Mako and Wu are now holding hands over the table, and a small smile creases his mouth, a gentle quirk that’s softer but no less happy than his usual grin. “Do you actually like seafood?” 

“No,” Asami admits. 

“Me either,” Bolin laughs. “Mako’s fine. Wanna go get ice cream?”

Asami jumps up out of her seat. “Thought you’d never ask.”

They go to the ice cream parlor down the street and sit at rickety tables outside, Bolin racing to finish his chocolate cone before it drips all the way down his cheek, Asami poking her spoon into a dish of mint chip and savoring the way that it sears cold tanginess all the way down the back of her throat. 

“I’m really glad you’re here this summer,” Bolin says, with all the boyish sincerity that Asami’s come to know and love him for. 

“Me too,” Asami says, and hands him a napkin to wipe the ice cream off his face.

//

The four of them head to the beachside taqueria that night, sitting at wicker tables lit by the dim glow of pyre torches, pushing baskets of chips and salsa back and forth between them. Mako orders a plate of nachos for them to share and Korra tries to convince the waiter that even though it’s Friday, they should qualify for the Taco Tuesday specials. The man stalks away with a frown, clearly irritated, and Asami laughs, the two margaritas in her bloodstream pushing the sound out louder than usual.

“We’re definitely not getting the taco specials,” she says. 

Korra huffs in indignance. “He’s being ridiculous. All I want is some half-price tacos.”

“Here,” Mako says, handing her a nacho. “To soothe your wounds.”

Korra stuffs the chip into her mouth, a smear of sauce painting along her bottom lip, and before she can think better of it, Asami leans over to wipe it off for her. She lets her thumb drag against Korra’s lip just a moment too long, and is rewarded by the quiet sound of Korra’s shaky inhale. 

“Thanks,” Korra says, her voice a little unsteady.

Bolin winks at Asami from across the table. She flips him off behind her margarita glass.

Mako tells them about his date with Wu, his voice uncharacteristically shy and affectionate. Bolin slaps him on the back, telling him that it must be true love. 

“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself here,” Mako says, his face red. “It’s been one date.”

“Sure, sure,” Bolin says grandly. “But when you know, you _know_ , right?’

Asami glances at Korra before she can catch herself, sees her own smile mirrored at the corners of Korra’s mouth.

“Yeah,” Korra says. “Sometimes, you just know.” 

The restaurant music fades from light reggaeton to a familiar set of piano chords, notes falling through the air like a shower of stars. Bolin raises an eyebrow. 

“Who the hell made this playlist?” he grumbles. “What kind of mix is this?”

“I like it,” Korra says, flicking a chip at him. “You, of all people, have no right to criticize other people’s music, not with all your early 2000s playlists.” 

Bolin sulks for a moment, then brightens up as a waitress comes by their table, setting down plates of tacos and burritos. 

“I like it, too,” Asami says, after Bolin’s taken a bite of taco. “It fits together beautifully, just not in the way you'd expect.” 

“Yeah,” Korra muses. “A lot of things in life are like that.”

Firelit nights. Found family. _Can’t Fight This Feeling_ by REO Speedwagon.

Asami nods, and as she soaks in the dim-lit warmth of the restaurant, the smell of salt from the nearby waves, Korra’s laughter as Bolin and Mako start a nacho-eating competition, she thinks that this summer is one of those things in life. 

//

“I’m going to teach you to drive,” Asami says as they stumble home across the darkened beach, Mako and Bolin draped over each other for support, her footing a little erratic from four margaritas. Korra is right next to her, their shoulders pushed together. “It’s about time you learn to use that piece of shit truck in your driveway.”

Korra tips forward and laughs, and Asami feels it on her collarbones, the warm ghost of laughter against her skin. “Alright,” she says. “But don’t expect much.”

“I’m a great teacher,” Asami says confidently. “Besides - ” She takes one breath in, one breath out, lets the tequila speak for her. “Even if you totally suck at it, being with you will be enough to make me happy.” 

“Loser,” Korra teases, and Asami’s fear fills the tiny space in time before Korra slips her hand into Asami’s and whispers, “I could say the exact same about you.”

//

Asami wakes with a pounding headache and a sore back from the couch’s worn-out cushions. Korra laughs at the way she eases herself into a chair at the kitchen counter, and pushes a coffee mug across the counter; no cream, two sugars, just how Asami likes it. 

“Where’s my coffee?” Bolin grouses from the armchair by the window, his head buried in his arms. 

“Get it yourself,” Korra says. 

“What, so you’ll make coffee for Asami but not me?” 

Korra rolls her eyes, turning to Asami. “You look well rested.” Her eyes sparkle with amusement. 

“Shut up,” Asami groans, wrapping her fingers around the coffee mug and letting the heat push into her skin. “God, my head is splitting open. And I think I’m getting scoliosis from that couch.” 

“Well, this is what you signed up for,” Korra reminds her, smirking. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Asami snarks. Then she remembers. “Hey, don’t think that you can get out of learning to drive. You already agreed to it last night.” 

“Fuck,” Korra says. “I was hoping you wouldn’t remember.” 

“I remember everything,” Asami says. “Don’t stress. You’ll be great.”

“If you say so,” Korra says hesitantly. “After all, you’re the professional here.”

“Trust me,” Asami says, resting a reassuring hand on top of Korra’s and savoring the way that the touch sends an electric current rushing through her nerves. “Driving is fun and relaxing.” 

Korra still looks doubtful, and Asami laughs. “It’ll be fine.” 

//

That evening, Asami has to admit that she may have been a little bit optimistic earlier. 

She’s driven hundreds of different vehicles in her lifetime, but she’s always felt most at home in a car; it’s a familiar and exhilarating rush, a thrill coupled with the sure knowledge that she’ll be able to outdrive and outwit any person or obstacle on the road. 

Yet now, sitting in the passenger seat of Korra’s truck, her foot pressed heavily against the floorboards as they jerk back and forth across the empty beach parking lot, Asami can’t help but feel something that’s an awful lot like _panic_. 

“I think I’m getting the hang of this,” Korra says, and her grin is so perfectly crooked, excitement lighting up her face, that Asami doesn’t have the heart to tell her the truth. 

“Uh, yeah!” Asami squeaks out, trying not to visibly clutch at the door handle. “You’re doing great. How about we try parking in one of those spots over there?”

Korra obligingly pulls into one of the slots facing the beach, the truck almost at a forty-five degree angle between the white lines, and wrestles the gear shift into park. Asami breathes a silent sigh of relief. 

“This is fun,” Korra says, reaching for the radio dial and fiddling with it until she lands on a soft rock station. “You’ve been doing this for like, years, right?” 

“Yeah,” Asami says, lowering her gaze. “My - my father taught me as soon as I turned sixteen.”

Korra glances at her, picking up on her shift in tone. “Your father sounds nice.”

Asami snorts. “That was probably the only nice thing he ever did for me.”

“Oh,” Korra says. There’s a moment of silence and staticky music between them, and then Korra asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Asami looks over at Korra, at her tender expression and caring blue eyes and flyaway strands of brown hair, and is suddenly caught up in a rush of affection. For the first time in eight, the words come easily. 

Korra has never put up any walls between them, so Asami lets hers fall. 

“My mother died when I was a baby,” Asami says slowly, “and my father has never really cared about me.” She bites her lip, the words bitter in her mouth. “Or at least, he’s never wanted me around. He taught me about cars and mechanics when I was young, but then he shipped me off to a series of different boarding schools, and during the summers, he put me through this business camp…” 

Korra’s fingers still linger on the radio controls, but Asami knows she’s listening. 

“I only saw him once or twice a year,” Asami continues. “And even then, he never felt like family. We’d sit together at a table large enough to hold twenty, and try to find something to talk about besides grades and finances.” 

“Asami,” Korra says, reaching for her hand now, lacing their fingers together at the tips, the touch almost unbearably gentle. “That sounds lonely. I’m sorry.” 

“That’s not the worst of it,” Asami says, bracing herself. “Six months ago, right after I graduated early, he - he got arrested. He’d been selling biotech weapons to the Republic City triad in return for protection. Those creeps had been following me around for months and I didn’t even know it. And this one triad, the Agni Kai...they were planning to take over the city by force, and he _knew_ it, and yet he was still helping them.” 

Tears are pushing at the edges of Asami’s eyes now, hot and stinging, but not spilling over. 

“He went to prison for life,” she says. “And I was forced to take over as CEO of Future Industries. Twenty one years old, fresh out of college, and suddenly I was in charge of a giant company whose name was now mud.” Asami takes a deep breath. “So I’ve been running Future Industries for the last six months, and all I have is Opal, my friend - and she’s my secretary, really - ” 

Korra squeezes her hand. “You have me now,” she says. “Mako and Bolin, too. I may not know anything about CEOs or corporations, but I do know that I’d do anything to help you.” 

Asami blinks, and the tears that she’s been holding back are suddenly flowing over. 

“Sorry,” she says, embarrassed. “It’s just - it’s been a long time since anyone’s said anything like that to me.” 

A taste of salt, a trail of warmth, and then a gentle touch on her cheek; Korra wipes her tears away with a steady hand. 

“He keeps calling,” Asami says, closing her eyes and leaning into Korra’s fingers. “The prison lets him have one call every two or three weeks, and he keeps calling the office, but I haven’t picked up or called back...I don’t even know if I’m allowed to be, but I’m just so angry at him still…”

“Asami,” Korra says quietly. “Whatever you’re feeling, you’re allowed to feel it.”

“Yeah,” Asami says, the words barely more than a breath. “I want to talk to him, but I don’t know. I’m not ready to forgive him, or trust him.” 

“I don’t want to overstep, but listening doesn’t mean forgiving. It’s completely your choice, but no matter what he says, you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met.” Korra smiles at her, the quirk of her mouth bittersweet. “I’ll have your back through anything.”

Asami blinks again, tears blurring her vision. Korra’s hand is still in hers, her fingers tracing Asami’s face.

“Shit, sorry,” Korra says. “Was that too much? Look, I didn’t mean - ” 

“No,” Asami cuts her off. “No. That was - Korra, that was perfect.” 

Korra raises their hands, still laced together, and presses a quick kiss to the back of Asami’s hand. “Thanks for telling me all this. I know it can’t have been easy.”

“It’s okay,” Asami says, and for the first time in six months, she means it. “You make everything easy.” 

Korra doesn’t reply, just turns up the radio a little. The space between them is filled with music and emotion, and Asami thinks that maybe she’s been waiting her entire life for this moment. 

“Sun’s setting,” she says, nodding to where brilliant streaks of gold, orange, and pink are spreading across the sky. It almost feels like she could reach through the windshield and hold the colors. 

A perfect sunset. Korra at her side. _There Is A Light That Never Goes Out_ by The Smiths. 

Korra nudges her in the side. “Tell me the truth,” she says. “I’m terrible at driving, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Asami admits, a smile taking over her face. 

“I knew it,” Korra sighs. “You’ll just have to start driving me around everywhere.” 

“What a horrible fate,” Asami says, leaning over the gear shift to rest her head on Korra’s shoulder. “I think I’ll survive somehow.” 

//

Mako and Bolin dig out an ancient Monopoly board after dinner and spread it on the floor of the living room, insisting that they play for “old times’ sake.” Korra looks exasperated, but claims her spot as the banker and deals out money with single handed determination, and Asami can tell that the girl is in it to win it.

But Asami is, too.

She bankrupts Bolin within five rounds, and Korra bankrupts Mako within six, and for the next two hours they sit rolling the dice furiously, stacking plastic houses on cardboard squares, and accusing each other of cheating. 

Korra finally ends up winning, and Asami wants to think that she let it happen, but she can’t truthfully pretend as much to herself. 

“What the fuck,” she sighs, watching as Korra does a victory dance and Mako starts cleaning up the game board. “I’m supposed to be good at this game. I’m literally a CEO.” 

“You are good,” Korra assures her, flinging an arm around her and giving her a cocky grin. “I’m just better.” 

Asami’s about to argue, but then Korra reaches up and plants a kiss on her cheek, and suddenly every thought in her head disappears completely. 

“Well,” Mako says, getting to his feet, “now that we’ve wasted an entire night watching you two almost come to blows over a handful of plastic houses and property cards, I’m off to bed.”

“Same here,” Bolin says. “Gotta get my eight hours if I want to stay this handsome.” He winks at them, shoots finger guns at Asami, then follows Mako towards the hallway. 

Asami sits down on the edge of the couch, her back already complaining at the prospect of another night on the worn-out cushions. Korra looks like she’s going to walk out of the room, and then she pauses for a moment, blushing a little in a way that Asami is unused to seeing. 

“Uh,” Korra starts, and Asami waits patiently for the rest of the sentence. 

“It seems dumb for you to break your back out here every night,” Korra says after a minute of silent blush. “Do you, um, do you want to share my bed?” 

Asami blushes so quickly that her face is probably matching Korra’s. “Korra,” she says with a playful grin. “Are you inviting me to sleep with you?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Korra protests. “It’s a large bed. You won’t even have to touch me.” 

“Well, now I have no incentive to come,” Asami says, and she’s rewarded by the sight of Korra blushing even harder. “But yes, I’d like that. Much more of this thing, and I’ll probably have permanent back issues.” She gestures to the couch.

“Come on, then,” Korra says, leading her up the staircase to the second floor, which Asami’s never really explored. The upstairs hallway is painted a gentle blue, with two skylights in the ceiling shedding a pearly moonlight glow onto the floor. 

“This is my room,” Korra says, pushing open a door and flicking on the light switch. “I made Mako and Bolin take the downstairs one.”

Asami looks around at the room, and her heart swells. Everything about it fits perfectly with the girl standing at her side.

The walls are the same shade of blue as the hallway outside, and they’re covered with surf posters and Polaroid snapshots of Korra with Mako and Bolin, Korra with a giant white dog, Korra in between a man who has her eyes and a woman who has her smile. The bed is pushed up to the wall near the window, the pillow resting so that someone lying down could see out over the ocean. The chair and desk in the corner of the room are piled with clothes and papers and chunks of surf wax, and there’s unmistakable traces of sand scattered across the floor. In the corner, a shortboard and what looks like a skimboard are propped against the wall.

Korra launches herself across the room onto the bed. “Bathroom’s down the hall, if you want to change. I’ll wait.” 

“Okay,” Asami says, grabbing a shirt and a pair of shorts from the stack of clothing on the desk without even trying to talk herself out of it.

Korra shoots her a grin. “Asami Sato, are you stealing my clothes?’

“Shut it,” Asami says. “I left all my stuff downstairs.” She ducks out of the room before Korra can laugh at her any more. 

Korra is lying under the sheets when Asami comes back, and she moves over to make room. Asami slides into bed next to her, and Korra leans over to turn out the light. Moonlight pours in through the open window, along with the faint sound of crashing waves. 

Korra’s body is so warm next to hers, and Asami lets herself roll over until they’re touching, arms brushing, her left leg pushed against Korra’s right. Anything more than that and she might combust.

“Goodnight, Asami,” Korra says, her voice already sleepy.

“Goodnight, Korra,” Asami says back, for once feeling comfortable and safe in the dark.

She’s almost asleep when Korra rolls over halfway on top of her, arm draped over Asami’s waist and head tucked under Asami’s chin. Asami kisses her forehead and silently wishes to fall asleep like this every night for the rest of her life. 

//

 _“You slept with her?_ ” Opal yells. 

“Will you keep it down?” Asami says. “And no. Not like that. Just like, in the same bed.” She shifts the phone to her other ear.

Opal sighs. _“Have you even kissed her yet?”_

Asami bites her lip. “No.” 

_“Damn,”_ Opal laughs. _“You’re losing your touch.”_

“Shut up.”

There’s a sound of shuffling papers, and then Opal sighs again. _“Asami, we miss you.”_

“I know,” Asami says, guilt sinking through her. “Look, the company is probably doing fine without me, I’m really not that important…”

“Of course you’re important,” Opal scoffs. “You’re literally the CEO. But that’s not what I meant. Forget the company, forget the board, forget all of that. _I_ miss you.” Asami listens carefully and hears the voice of her friend; not her secretary, not someone who works for her, just her best and oldest friend.

“I miss you too,” Asami says. “I’ll be back soon.”

_“You keep saying that, but - ”_

“Two weeks,” Asami says bitterly. “Okay? Two more weeks.”

There’s a pause, then Opal’s voice comes again; softer, gentler. _“Asami, I didn’t mean - ”_

“Two weeks,” Asami repeats. “I promise. Bye, Opal.” She ends the call and drops her phone to the floor of the porch, her heart aching.

“Everything okay out here?” Korra asks, opening the screen door. Asami looks at her, notices she’s wearing the blue lifeguard shorts again and holding a toaster waffle, like it’s the second day all over again.

“Yeah, all good,” Asami lies.

“Cool,” Korra says. “Wanna go surf with me?”

Asami nods and follows Korra down the beach, her heart aching even more. 

//

“Asami, that’s too much pepper.” 

Asami looks up from where she’s grating pepper into the pot of soup. “How do you know?”

“I just do.”

“Hm,” Asami says doubtfully, putting down the peppermill. “Maybe it’s a matter of preference. Maybe I like my soup extra spicy.” 

“Maybe,” Korra says. “Or maybe you just don’t really know how to cook.” She laughs, and Asami is helplessly caught in the creases at the corners of her mouth.

“Here,” Korra says, passing her a knife. “Cut these carrots instead. I’ll deal with the spices.” 

“Dictator,” Asami mutters, but she starts slicing the carrots anyway.

They’re in the kitchen making dinner. Mako and Bolin are down at the beach, having some fun after closing up shop next door, so it’s just Korra and Asami, the two of them throwing together a noodle soup as the breeze blows lightly through the open windows and another of Korra’s soft rock playlists flows from the stereo. Korra’s wearing an oversized shirt and her face is slightly sunburned, and Asami can’t look away. 

“Hey,” Korra says, catching her staring. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Asami says. She sets down her knife anyway.

Korra leans back against the counter, looking at Asami intently. “It’s not nothing.”

Asami shrugs one shoulder, listening to the song on the stereo just for a way to distract herself.

Making dinner together, just the two of them. Korra right next to her, one breath away. Asami wants to reach for her more than she’s ever wanted anything in her life. 

It’s not nothing.

“Hey, talk to me,” Korra says, one step closer now, her hand on Asami’s waist. Her mouth curves at the corner, that crooked grin that Asami loves with all her heart. 

A breathless smile. Bright blue eyes. _Kiss Me_ by Sixpence None The Richer. 

“ _Strike up the band, and make the fireflies dance,_ ” Asami sings along softly. Her hand finds its way to the small of Korra’s back. “ _Silver moon’s sparkling…_ ” 

Everything about this moment is softness and sunlight and Sixpence None The Richer lyrics; Korra’s hand against her, Asami’s head tilting down, Korra smiling at her like she’s the only other person in the world. 

“Korra?” Asami says, the name like a question on her lips.

“Asami,” Korra answers, still smiling, endearingly crooked, every one of Asami’s dreams come to life. Her free hand finds Asami’s, lacing their fingers together.

Asami pushes forward and kisses her. 

It’s gentle, with Korra’s lips moving perfectly against hers, her mouth even softer than Asami could have ever imagined. She tastes like salt and summer and pure love, and this is the moment that Asami’s been waiting for ever since Korra first ran her over in the waves ago, on a day that feels like it was both five lifetimes and twenty minutes ago.

“God,” Asami says, pulling back, her face barely an inch from Korra’s. “You’re perfect.”

“I think you’re confusing me with yourself,” Korra grins, and then she kisses Asami again, and this time it’s not gentle at all. Korra flips them around until Asami’s back is pushed into the counter, her mouth hot and insistent against Asami’s, and Asami thinks that this might be what love feels like.

There’s a loud bubbling noise from the stove. Korra jumps, pulling back, and Asami looks over at the soup pot to see that it’s boiling over. 

“Shit,” Korra says, frantically reaching for a spoon. “Why is this happening?”

“Probably wouldn’t have happened if you’d let me add enough pepper,” Asami says. 

“Oh, will you shut up about the pepper,” Korra replies, but once she’s gotten the soup to stop exploding, she presses another kiss to Asami’s mouth. Asami smiles against her lips, happier than she's ever been before.

The screen door bangs open and Mako and Bolin come in, hair dripping wet, feet bare and sandy. Korra pulls away from Asami, but doesn't let go of her hand. 

“Is that soup?” Bolin asks, not even blinking at the sight of their joined hands. “I hope you made a lot. I’m starving.” 

Mako dishes out bowls of soup and the four of them sit at the kitchen counter, Bolin tossing his spoon away in favor of drinking directly from his bowl. Korra eats left-handed so she can keep holding Asami’s hand, and Mako smiles at them.

“Finally figured it out, huh,” he says. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Korra scoffs, and then she leans over and kisses Asami on the cheek. Asami blushes. 

There’s a sputtering noise, and Bolin sprays soup all over the table. “Whoa, whoa,” he says, flicking a finger back and forth between Korra and Asami. “When did this happen?”

“Ten minutes ago,” Asami says.

“Last night,” Korra says. 

“Three weeks ago?” Asami guesses, because really, this has been coming since the day they met. 

“Well,” Bolin says, his green eyes sparkling. He nods to Asami. “I told you that you make her happy.” 

This time, it’s Korra’s turn to blush.

//

Asami sleeps in Korra’s bed every night, and time starts slipping away like grains of sand between her fingers.

A day passes, then two, then four. Asami works in the shop and surfs with her friends and spends every moment she can with Korra, but underneath all that is the inevitable sense that she’s living on borrowed time.

Just the thought of being back in Republic City, hundreds of miles away from Korra, makes her want to panic. She’s always been the independent type, but Korra feels as essential as oxygen to her. 

She doesn’t know what to do.

“Hey,” Korra says, late one night, when Mako and Bolin have already gone to bed. They’re lying on the couch, Korra’s head in Asami’s lap, Asami’s fingers running through Korra’s hair. Korra tips her head back to meet Asami’s eyes and Asami smiles, feeling an overwhelming rush of love flow through her.

“Are you tired?” Korra asks. 

“Not really,” Asami says. Even if she was, she’d probably still say no; she doesn’t want to waste a single minute with Korra. She has few enough of them as it is. 

“Come down to the beach with me, then,” Korra says. “I want to show you something.” She pauses at the screen door, then grabs Asami’s hand. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Asami breathes out, no hesitation behind the word.

“Then close your eyes,” Korra says. “I want this to be a surprise.”

Asami closes her eyes and lets Korra pull her along. Korra leads her like they’re dancing, and they walk down the sandy beach until they’re at the water’s edge. Asami can smell the salt, feel the coolness of the water at her feet. 

“Okay,” Korra says. “You can look now.”

Asami opens her eyes and gasps in shock, because it’s like the stars have fallen into the ocean.

The water is full of an iridescent blue glow, the same color as Korra’s eyes. Asami watches as a wave breaks at their feet, scattering azure light across their legs, the entire sea stretching out before them like a galaxy.

“Wow,” Asami says softly. “What - how does it look like this?”

“Bioluminescent algae,” Korra explains. “The tides bring it to us every summer. Last year, Mako and Bolin and I went surfing when it was like this.” 

“And this year?”

“This year,” Korra says fondly, pressing a kiss to the turn of Asami’s jaw, “I wanted to share it with you.”

Asami looks at Korra, even more beautiful than the glowing waves, and knows she’s in love.

She can’t say it, though. Not now, maybe not ever. Not when she’s leaving in ten days. 

“What do you think?” Korra says. “Cool, right?” 

“Beautiful,” Asami says. “Just like you.” 

Korra grins. “Come on, then,” she says, shedding her shirt and shorts and wading into the water. “This is a once in a lifetime experience.” 

“Not for you, it’s not,” Asami whispers. She tosses her clothes onto the beach and follows Korra into the water, diving under and opening her eyes against the brilliant, electric blue lights. 

Korra’s lying on her back when Asami surfaces, paddling in a lazy circle. “The stars are out, too,” she says. “Feels like we’re swimming in the night sky when it’s like this.” 

“It’s amazing,” Asami says, and tries to convince herself that the salt she tastes on her face is only from the water. 

“Bolin will be sad he missed this,” Korra muses. “But whatever. It usually lasts a couple days anyway.” 

Asami lies down on her back too, and the two of them float for a while, Korra’s hand finding its way into hers. Asami thinks about how she read somewhere that sea otters sleep just like this, holding hands so that they don’t drift apart in the night, and clutches Korra’s hand even tighter.

“Every year, I think about how much my mom would like this,” Korra says thoughtfully. “They don’t get this down at the South Pole, cause the water isn’t warm enough.”

“Don’t they visit?” Asami asks, and Korra tenses under her fingers. 

“Sometimes,” she says carefully. “Not very often, thought. Flights from the South Pole are expensive, and we - they don’t have that much money.” 

“Oh,” Asami says, feeling guilty. She’s never known what it’s like to not have enough money, never known any kind of struggle to stay above poverty. 

“Yeah,” Korra sighs. “They kind of spent most of it getting me out of the South Pole in the first place. The Southern Water Tribe isn’t always the most accepting, and once I came out...my parents aren’t homophobic at all, but they wanted better for me than life in a small-minded town, so they pretty much emptied their bank account to get me here. I haven’t seen them in a few years.” 

“I’m sorry, Korra,” Asami says, lost for words. “I don’t - I wish I knew what to say.” 

“It’s okay,” Korra says. “Ember Island is better for me anyway; I’ve never liked the cold, and no one here cares who anyone loves. I just wish I could see my parents more often.” She pauses, turns her head towards Asami. “Still, I’ve met some pretty amazing people here, so I guess it evens out.” 

Asami steadies her feet against the sandy ocean floor and leans over to kiss Korra, running one hand through her wet hair. When she pulls back, Korra’s eyes are sparkling with salt water and maybe a few tears, but she’s smiling. 

“Let’s go back up the beach,” Korra says. “There’s one more thing I want to show you.” 

The moonlight illuminates the way as Korra pulls her towards the sand dunes, and Asami isn’t sure what they’re looking for until Korra stops at the edge of an orange tape boundary and points to a nest made of seaweed-y sand and driftwood twigs. Asami looks closer and sees a pile of large, pearly white eggs, clustered together like jewels in a dragon’s hoard. 

“Look,” Korra says, and as the words leave her mouth, one of the eggs cracks open to reveal a baby sea turtleduck. The little creature wriggles free of the shell and starts crawling towards the water, making little quacking noises. Asami’s breath catches in her throat as another egg cracks and another baby sea turtleduck emerges. 

“They’re so little,” she says. “Will they be okay?” 

“They’ll be fine,” Korra assures her. “I saw some of the eggs cracking a little earlier tonight, so I called Lin - she’s a friend of mine who works for Animal Control. She’s coming out here tomorrow morning to put up signs and more tape, help pave the way for these little guys to make it safely to the ocean.” 

Asami sits down on the sand and leans into Korra’s shoulder, and together they watch as a dozen more sea turtleducks hatch over the next half hour. 

“They’ll still be here in the morning, right?” Asami asks as they make their way back to the house. “I mean, they won’t all hatch tonight?”

“No, they won’t,” Korra says. “Don’t worry, we can go see them again tomorrow.” 

Asami smiles. “You know me so well.”

Once they’re in bed, Korra’s arm curved around Asami’s body, Asami can’t hide a sigh. It’s getting harder to ignore the fact that in less than two weeks, she’ll be sleeping alone in an empty bed back in Republic City. 

“What’s wrong?” Korra asks, brushing stray strands of hair out of Asami’s eyes. 

“I’m leaving in ten days,” Asami blurts out. “I’ve already been away too long, and Opal - she didn’t set a deadline exactly, but - ten days. That’s all we have left.” 

Korra pulls her closer. “Asami…” 

“I’m so sorry,” Asami says, closing her eyes. “I don’t want to leave, but I have to.” 

“Asami, look at me,” Korra says, and Asami opens her eyes. Korra is like a photograph in the darkness, focused and beautiful. “I don’t regret anything. If ten more days is all we get, then I’ll make sure they’re the best ten days you’ve ever had.” 

“I don’t want to leave you,” Asami says, a tear trailing down her cheek now. “There’s so much we haven’t done. We haven’t had breakfast in bed, you haven’t shown me the entire island, we haven’t even had sex…” 

“I don’t want you to go,” Korra whispers. “That being said…” There’s a different light in her eyes now, an intensity that makes Asami shiver in sudden arousal. “If you want, we can check one of those things off the list right now.” She runs a hand along Asami’s thigh, her touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. 

“Fuck,” Asami says. “Alright, you’ve convinced me.” 

“Didn’t take much, did it,” Korra smirks. “You’re so easy.” 

“Shut up,” Asami says, pulling at Korra’s shirt as Korra rolls on top of her. “This, off, now.” 

Korra yanks the shirt over her head and tosses it somewhere behind her, and Asami bites down on her lip as she takes in the fact that Korra’s not wearing a bra. 

“Like what you see?” Korra smirks, straddling Asami’s hips. Asami squeezes her thighs together, knowing that she’s already wet. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Asami says, pulling her own shirt off and throwing it to the side. “Don’t get too cocky now.” 

“Please,” Korra scoffs. “You’re into it.” 

Asami wants to argue, but Korra’s lips are on her neck and her hands are sliding Asami’s shorts down her legs, and Asami can’t formulate a coherent thought, let alone an argument. 

//

“Okay,” Asami says afterwards, once she remembers how to breathe. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m into it.” 

Korra smirks again. “Always have been, baby.” 

Asami rests her head against Korra’s collarbone. “Does this mean we’re girlfriends now?” 

Korra frowns against the top of her head. “Wait, weren’t we already?”

“We just never really talked about it, so I didn’t want to assume…” 

“Asami,” Korra says, a laugh pushing against Asami’s eyelashes. “I’ve been your girlfriend since the first time we kissed.” 

“Oh,” Asami says. And then a moment later, “Yeah, that makes sense.” 

//

Asami sits behind the counter the next day, her legs still sore from last night. She curses under her breath as she writes down the wrong number on the inventory sheet for the third time in a row. 

In theory, she’s taking inventory; in practice, she’s staring at Korra’s ass as her girlfriend (her _girlfriend)_ bends over to sort through a box of shortboard fins. 

“Can you stop that?” Asami says, gripping her pen tightly. 

Korra blinks innocently at her. “Stop what?” 

“You know,” Asami says. “The - ” She waves a hand, hoping that Korra will figure out the rest of context. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Korra says, setting down the box and coming over to the counter. She leans into Asami, hands resting on her thighs, mouth ghosting over a mark left on Asami’s neck from last night. “Am I distracting you?” 

“Yes, asshole,” Asami says, but it’s more of a needy whine than a cutting insult. “You’re making it impossible for me to work.” 

“Well,” Korra says, “in that case, let me be the one to do work here.” She flicks the sign on the door to “Closed,” then lifts Asami up onto the counter in one swift movement. 

“Korra,” Asami protests weakly, unspeakably turned on by the way Korra can pick her up like she’s weightless. “Anyone could see us through the door.” 

“So we’ll give them a good show,” Korra says. Then her hands are undressing Asami and her head is between Asami’s thighs, licking into her, and Asami is too busy pulling Korra’s hair and moaning to make any more arguments. 

//

The next ten days are a blur, hours melting away into each other, shying away as Asami tries to hold on. The only thing she’s really aware of is Korra.

Korra, waking up beside her, bringing her toaster waffles in bed, dancing her around the kitchen while they listen to _Seven Wonders_ by Fleetwood Mac. Korra, reaching for her hand, carrying her surfboard, smiling before Asami even looks at her.

Korra, disappearing from her life in four, three, two days. 

Asami aches already, dreading the day to come. She doesn’t know how to miss someone who’s standing right next to her, and yet she’s already missing Korra.

When she actually has to leave, Asami thinks, it might rip her in two.

//

On Asami’s last day on Ember Island, Korra wakes her up just after sunrise. 

“What’s going on?” Asami asks, blinking sleepily. 

“Nothing,” Korra says. “I just don’t want to waste a single minute. Is that okay? We can go back to sleep if you want.” 

“Like hell we will,” Asami says, rolling out of bed and putting on Korra’s favorite Avatar Surf shirt. “I’m not dumb enough to choose sleep over spending time with you.” 

Korra smiles at her, and they find their way downstairs. Korra sticks waffles in the toaster and Asami sits at the counter, watching Korra sing along quietly to the song on the stereo and trying not to think about how heartlessly empty her kitchen back in Republic City will seem tomorrow.

“Can we go surf?” Asami asks, once the waffles are gone. 

“Asami,” Korra says, smoothing a strand of her hair back affectionately. “You could ask me to go murder someone today, and I’d say yes. Anything to spend time together.” 

“Surfing it is, then,” Asami decides. “We can take a rain check on the murder.”

The water is warm, the waves perfect curls that slice their way to shore in soft diagonals. Korra takes the foam top board from Asami and hands over her own shortboard in return.

“Are you sure?” Asami asks. 

“Sure,” Korra says. “You’re basically a pro by now.” She smiles at Asami, and it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

They catch two sets of waves, flying to shore in perfect unison. Asami rolls off her board and sits in the shallows after the second set, shocked at how much she’s going to miss being at the beach. She’s even going to miss the sand. 

“Hey,” a familiar voice calls. “Wait up.” Asami sits up to see Bolin and Mako running down the beach, boards under their arms. 

Bolin grins at her as he plows into the water, splashing her and Korra like a tidal wave. Korra pretends to frown at him. “Shouldn’t you be opening the store?” 

“Forget the store,” Bolin says. “We’ve got priorities today.” He nods to Asami, taps her lightly on the shoulder. “Ready for a little surfing competition?”

“Depends,” Asami says. “How easy do I need to go on you?” 

“Oh, it’s on,” Bolin says, hauling her to her feet. “Come on, we’re paddling out. Let’s settle this right now.” 

Mako paddles after him, his board gently cresting the waves. Asami takes Korra’s hand and tries to paddle with one arm.

“This isn’t very effective,” she huffs, after moving about seven feet in five minutes. 

Korra shoots her a grin, squeezing her hand tighter. “Yeah, but it’s more fun this way.” 

They surf until the sun is high in the sky. Bolin and Asami try to race, but end up in a splash fight with Mako after they disagree with his attempt at refereeing. Korra gets a small crowd onshore watching them after she starts doing tricks to impress Asami. The four of them lie back on their boards and just let the tides carry them. Asami stares up at the cloudless blue sky and lets herself pretend that this is just another day on the ocean, just another day on Ember Island. 

Pretending only makes it worse, but it doesn’t stop her.

Eventually Bolin’s ears start to turn bright red, and they’re forced to go in.

“We’ve lived on the beach for five years, and you still can’t remember to put on enough sunscreen,” Mako scolds as they set down their boards in the yard. Bolin just waves dismissively. “Whatever, Mako. Chicks dig sunburns.” 

“I think you’re thinking of scars,” Mako mutters. 

“Hm, I don’t know,” Korra says, her fingers lightly tracing a path across Asami’s sun-pinked cheeks. “Bolin might be onto something here.” 

Mako sighs, Bolin laughs; Asami presses Korra’s fingers to her lips, dreading the moment when she’ll have to let go.

//

True to Bolin’s word, they don’t open the shop at all. Instead, they spend the day lazing around on the beach, in the yard, on the back porch. They go to the diner for lunch, and Bolin and Korra order double-stack plates of waffles to have an eating contest. They stop at the taqueria to take advantage of Margarita Mondays, and Asami only sips from her glass because she doesn’t want to get drunk and forget a moment of this. They dig a hole on the beach and bury Bolin up to the neck.

The day flows by like water, every moment cast in a warm golden haze of sunlight, Korra’s hand in Asami’s throughout it all. It’s lazy and beautiful, and horribly bittersweet. As they sit by the pool, Bolin waxing a board and Mako flipping through a surf magazine and Korra squeezing her into a lounge chair never meant for two, Asami is hit by the stunning realization that she doesn’t want to leave. Not tonight, not ever. 

But it’s too late to do anything about that, so she just fakes a smile and pulls Korra on top of her, lets herself brush her fingers through short brown hair and hold on to these last few hours that they have. 

//

“I’m going to miss you,” Korra says later that evening. 

“The sky is blue,” Asami replies. 

“Asami…” 

“What,” Asami says, “I thought we were stating obvious things.” 

Korra huffs, pushes at her shoulder. “Ass.” 

Asami smiles against her. They’re lying on the couch, Korra between Asami’s legs, resting against her chest. Asami’s suitcase is packed and ready by the door, but Bolin has draped two dishtowels over it in an effort to pretend it’s not there. He’s now sitting at the counter with Mako, both of them waiting to drive Asami to the airship port but wanting to give her this time with Korra.

Asami breathes in, breathes out, tries to soak in every corner of this moment. There’s still takeout containers on the counter, still a classic rock song pouring from the stereo, still salt and sand tangled into Korra’s windswept hair. 

“The sun is setting,” Korra says, nodding towards the screen door.

“Yeah,” Asami says quietly. “It feels more like an ending this time.” 

A setting sun. Korra lying in her arms. _Fooled Around And Fell In Love_ by Elvin Bishop.

Korra looks directly into her eyes, and Asami feels like she’s drowning in pools of blue. She knows exactly what Korra’s about to say. 

“Don’t,” she says softly. “Please. It’ll make this even harder.” 

“You feel the same way, don’t you?” Korra asks. 

“I do,” Asami says. It feels like a confession. Like a prayer. 

Korra’s head drops to Asami’s chest, and Asami thinks of a white flag. A surrender. 

“I can’t help it,” Korra whispers. “I care about you, Asami. More than I’ve ever cared about anyone. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.” 

“I know,” Asami says. “Me either.” 

Korra blinks, and a tear soaks into the fabric of Asami’s shirt. There’s no more words for what they’re feeling, no words for the particular shade of blue that paints this moment, but Asami doesn’t need them. 

Sometimes you just know.

//

The drive to the airport is almost silent. Bolin makes an attempt to fill the silence with chatter, but it’s clear that his heart isn’t in it; his green eyes are clouded over, and he drives without any of the fake road rage or loose steering that Asami’s used to. Mako sits in shotgun, rolling the windows down with the hand-turn crank, and Asami sits in the backseat with Korra, holding her hand still, feeling like a little kid. 

“Here we are,” Bolin says after he parks by the door, but he makes no move to get out. They sit together for a minute longer, the quiet filled with emotion, and then Mako finally pushes the door open and drags Asami’s suitcase out of the back.

He’s the first one to hug her, carefully and gently, setting her suitcase on the sidewalk. “Don’t forget about us, okay?” he says. 

“I don’t know,” Asami says. “You’re pretty forgettable.” She meets his amber eyes for a moment, letting him see the humor behind her words, then pulls him in for another quick hug.

Bolin is next, his hug almost crushing Asami’s ribs, and she’s reminded of the second day they met; he’d hugged just the same way back then. So much has happened since that day, but this hug brings her full circle.

“I’ll miss you so much, Asami,” he says, tears rolling freely down his face. “I’ll miss our ice cream hangouts, and you helping me solve my crosswords, and spying on Mako’s dates together, and - ” 

“Wait, you spied on me?” Mako says, and Bolin shoves him away.

“Call us,” he says to Asami, smiling valiantly through his tears. “Or text us. Or send a messenger pigeon.” 

“I will,” Asami says, smoothing down his lock of black hair that’s always springing up. “Thanks for everything, Bolin.” 

Bolin squeezes her again and moves to stand next to Mako, and then it’s just Korra left. 

“Korra,” Asami says helplessly. She can see tears pooling in the corners of Korra’s eyes, and knows that her own are probably filling too. 

Korra kisses her softly, then desperately, the kiss tasting like salt and heartbreak and bittersweet endings. Then her arms are around Asami, wrapped tight like she’s holding them together, and Asami hangs on for dear life.

“Goodbye, Korra,” Asami says. 

“Don’t say it like that,” Korra says, wiping at her face. “I’ll see you again. And I’ll call you every day…” 

“I know,” Asami says. “I will, too.” 

Korra blinks. “Asami…”

“Don’t,” Asami says. 

“Okay,” Korra whispers. “As long as you already know. Goodbye, Asami.” She kisses Asami once more, and then the blue truck is pulling out of the parking lot, and Asami is left standing alone on the sidewalk. 

The airship flight home takes eight hours, and for the first time in her life, Asami finds herself hating it; hating the metal walls, hating the hum of machinery, hating that every minute takes her farther away from Korra. For once, she understands what people mean when they say _rage against the machine._

For once, she wishes to be someone other than Asami Sato.

//

Her bed in Republic City is so cold, and Asami can’t bear to leave the windows open, not when the sounds of the city are deafeningly loud and harsh. She puts on a rock playlist and piles blankets onto her bed, tossing and turning, missing Korra lying next to her.

An empty bed. A broken heart. _If You Leave Me Now_ by Chicago. 

Asami lies awake and wishes the city would swallow her whole.

//

“You’re back!” Opal exclaims the next morning, patting her on the shoulder. Asami just nods and adjusts the collar of her button-down shirt, feeling like she’s being slowly suffocated.

They’re sitting in the penthouse office of Future Industries, and for once, the breathtaking view of the city means nothing to Asami. She no longer feels like this is where she belongs, no longer feels like this is what she’s meant for.

“Oh, Asami,” Opal says, wrapping one arm around her. “It happened, didn’t it.” 

“What happened?” 

“You fell in love.” 

Asami nods again, and finds herself on the verge of tears. 

“God,” Opal says. “I’ll clear the schedule for today.” 

She makes tea and brings Asami a plate of biscuits. Asami thinks of toaster waffles and coffee made exactly the way she likes it, and lets her tears fall.

//

“Hey,” Korra’s voice says, ringing tinnily through the speaker. 

Asami slumps back in her chair, tired but relieved. “Hey. I miss you.” 

“I miss you too,” Korra says. “How’s that deal with Varrick coming along?” 

“It’s fine,” Asami says, scowling at the mention of Varrick. “Forget about that, though. Tell me about the shop. Did we - did you get a new shipment of boards?”

Korra pauses, and Asami can tell that she caught the slip-up. “Yeah, we did,” she says, her voice cracking a little, although it may just be the static. “It’s a funny story, actually - Bolin filled in the form wrong, so instead of ordering one Permanent Rose foam top, he ordered eleven, and now we’re stuck with way too many bright pink boards.” 

Asami laughs genuinely for the first time since she left Ember Island. “Really? That’s such a Bolin move.” 

“Yeah, Mako really let him have it for that one,” Korra chuckles. “But it worked out okay, because we’re giving a couple of them to Suyin for her sons to use, and it’s in exchange for a diner discount…” 

Opal appears in the office door, her expression apologetic. “Sorry,” she says, “but the Board is here to discuss zoning laws for our new factory.” 

“Can’t it wait?” 

“They’re already sitting in the conference room.” 

Asami sighs heavily. “Korra, I have to go,” she says. “I’m sorry. I’ll call you back tonight, okay?” 

“Okay,” Korra says, her tone subdued now despite her attempts to hide it. “Go kick some corporate ass. I’ll talk to you later. I - ” She pauses, and the unspoken words hang on the line between them. 

“Bye, Korra,” Asami says, and sets down the phone. Opal hands her a new coffee and a sympathetic smile as they head into the conference room, and it’s cold comfort.

//

Two weeks pass. Korra calls her almost every day, but ten or twenty minutes with a static-filled phone line is no replacement for the real thing. Bolin texts her sometimes, multiple messages about his day, and while it makes Asami smile, it also hurts that she wasn’t there to see any of it. Mako is more concise, sending single texts occasionally, mostly pictures; a baby turtleduck, a chunk of surf wax shaped like a cow, Korra sitting half-asleep at the counter table with a waffle in her hand.

Asami saves that last picture and stares at it until her eyes start to burn.

She starts wearing Korra’s shirts to board meetings and staying up all night waiting for an opportunity to call. Three deals fall through because she doesn’t have the heart to follow up with them, and she doesn’t even care. 

The city seems too big, too loud. When she looks out across Republic City Bay, there are no white-crested waves. She goes to bed alone, and there’s no sand on her bedroom floor. 

She’s absolutely miserable. 

“Asami,” Opal says, over and over, looking more worried every time. “You have to find a better way to handle this. You’re going to destroy yourself.” 

Asami just shrugs, looks at her phone to see if Korra’s called. 

“Also,” Opal says. “The prison called again. Your father. He says he just wants to talk…” She pauses, trying to gauge Asami’s reaction. “I can tell them to stop calling if you want.” 

Asami straightens up a little. She remembers an evening in a beach parking lot, a sunset, Korra sitting next to her. _Listening isn’t the same as forgiving._

“Actually,” she says, “I’d like to visit him.” 

Opal looks surprised. “Really?” 

“Really,” Asami says. “Clear me for tomorrow, would you? I’ll be going then.” 

Opal hesitates, then nods. Right before she goes to change the schedule, she wraps Asami in a quick hug. 

//

Asami sits in a white-walled waiting room, blinking under the glare of fluorescent lights. Despite her best attempts to hide it, her hands are shaking. 

Hiroshi Sato sits across the table from her, looking ten pounds lighter and ten years older, and he’s somehow familiar and a complete stranger all at once.

“Hello, Asami,” he says gently, and for a moment, Asami is four years old again. 

‘Don’t,” she says. “Don’t talk to me like everything is fine. I’m not here because I forgive you.” 

Hiroshi nods. 

“But,” Asami says, “I’m here to listen. Someone - someone important to me recently told me that listening isn’t the same as forgiving, and I’d like to give you the chance to explain.” She sits back in her chair and waits. 

“Well,” her father says, slumping forwards onto the table, resting his head in his hands. “What can I even say? The triads, the weapons, all of it…”

“Why?” Asami asks. “Just tell me why. You owe me that, at least.” 

“I wanted to keep you safe,” Hiroshi says. “I regret the way that it ended, but I don’t regret trying to protect you. Maybe it was stupid and selfish, but I had to put you first. I swore that I’d never let anything happen to you. I just wanted you to have a good life.” 

His gaze drifts away from her, and Asami can tell that he’s seeing something in the distant past. 

“You were so young when your mother died,” he says, sorrow creeping into the edges of his voice. “But I remember it clear as day. A drive-by shooter, a miscalculated shot. Some thug from a triad that doesn’t even exist anymore. I was right next to her, but I wasn’t even touched…” 

As Asami watches, a tear slides slowly down his cheek. He’s looking at her now, but not seeing her. 

“I sat with her while the ambulance came, but I already knew it was no good. And in that moment, I knew that I couldn’t let anything like this happen ever again. The triads rule this city, and I figured it was better to befriend the devil than let him ruin you outright. So I took steps to protect you, and I would do it all over again.” 

Asami bites down on her lip, so hard that the skin breaks. She can taste copper on her tongue.

“I still remember that day,” Hiroshi says, head bent, the picture of defeat. Asami can’t help but think of Korra lying on her chest that last day together, head bent in the same way. “Your mother was there in my arms, dying, and all I could do was regret. Every business trip I took that left her behind. Every night that we slept apart because of a pointless fight. Every moment that I wasted because I wasn’t with her.” 

Asami feels like a light has been turned on in her brain. The more her father talks, the more she understands. 

Listening isn’t forgiveness, but Asami’s getting closer anyway.

“Life is too short,” Hiroshi says, making no move to wipe away his tears. “I couldn’t let yours end like that. I had to protect you, Asami. Do you understand?” 

Asami looks at her father and sees him for what he is; not a powerful businessman, not the standard set for her career, not a driving influence in the city, but a broken man living with too many fears and regrets. For the first time in her life, he really feels like family. 

And his words are ringing a bell inside her that she can’t ignore. 

_Life is too short._

“Hiroshi,” Asami says. “Dad. I understand. I still don’t forgive, but I understand.” 

Her father lifts his head, surprise spreading across his features. There’s something else there too, something like hope. 

“I’d like to forgive you,” Asami says. “Maybe one day, I can. I’ll visit again sometime, I promise. And I’ll stop ignoring your calls. Someday, somewhere in the future, we can fix this.” She stands, hesitates, then places a hand on top of her father’s. “I love you, Dad. But right now, I have to go.” 

“I love you too, Asami,” her father says, smiling now, and Asami wonders how it came to this. How it took twenty two years and a prison ward to finally make them a family. 

Asami nods to him and then walks out the door, knowing that it won’t be the last time. Then she runs down the hallway as fast as she can. 

Opal is sitting in the waiting room, tapping notes into her tablet. She looks up, wide-eyed, when Asami comes bursting in and grabs her by the wrist, dragging her outside to the sidewalk. 

“What’s happening, Asami?” Opal asks. “Slow down, slow down. Did the visit go badly?” 

“No,” Asami says. “It went really well, actually. But I need a favor from you.” 

“What is it?” Opal’s professional layer is shed, revealing only her concern as a friend, and Asami smiles sadly at her. She’s going to miss this.

“I need you to find me someone to help me pack up my apartment, and I - ” One breath in. One breath out. “I need you to schedule me a flight to Ember Island. Tonight.” 

//

Ember Island looks the same as it did when she left; sandy, sunlit, slightly faded. Asami hires a driver to haul her bags into the back of his dilapidated taxi van, and tells him the address. 

“Alright if I put some music on?” the driver asks, and Asami nods. A moment later, a soft soul song starts playing, and even though it’s not from Korra’s stereo, it feels like a sign.

Open windows. The beach to her left. _Bring It On Home To Me_ by Sam Cooke. 

When they finally pull up to the familiar driveway, wisteria blooming across the pavement in overgrown tangles, Asami’s stomach is tying itself into knots. She pays the driver and asks him to stay for a moment, then walks up to the front door and, after a moment of hesitation, pushes it open.

She’s never entered the house this way before, but as soon as she steps inside, it’s all right; the pastel walls, the crookedly hung portraits, the smell of salt and sea breeze. Asami makes her way to the kitchen, where she stops in the doorway and stares.

Bolin is asleep on the couch, slowly sliding off. Mako is in the corner, bent over what looks to be an inventory sheet. And Korra is sitting at the counter, head propped up on one hand, hair an absolute mess. She looks sadder and more tired than Asami has ever seen her. 

Asami feels doubt starting to rise up in her, but it’s way too late for that - ten suitcases and an airship flight too late. 

“Korra?” she says. 

Korra’s head snaps up, and she stares at Asami. It’s like catching a perfect wave. Korra’s eyes are just as blue as they always are, and her shorts are the same old lifeguard ones, and Asami knows that everything’s going to be alright. 

“Asami,” Korra says, and then she’s throwing herself across the kitchen into Asami’s arms. Asami hugs her tightly and breathes in; salt, seaweed, strawberry shampoo. 

“What are you doing here?” Korra asks. “How long are you staying?” 

“That depends,” Asami says. “How long do you want me?” 

Korra pushes back from the hug, searching her face for an answer. 

“Because I was kind of thinking _forever_ ,” Asami continues, “but only if you want me around, of course.” 

“God,” Korra breathes out, her mouth finally curling up into that crooked grin. “I want forever, Asami. I want - ” 

“Me too,” Asami says. “I - ” She takes a deep breath. She’s on Ember Island now, in Korra’s arms, staying for good, and there’s no reason to hold it back anymore. “I love you, Korra.” 

“I love you too,” Korra says, and for one shining moment, they’re the only two people on earth. Asami’s entire world is Korra; her crooked grin, her beautiful blue eyes, her worn-out cotton shirt and salt-tangled hair.

And then Mako and Bolin are there, folding them into a four-way hug, and Bolin is crushing her again. “I knew you’d come back,” he says. “I _knew_ it.” 

Asami lets herself melt into the hug, into the three best people she’s ever met, and knows that she’s finally home.

//

“So what now?” Bolin asks, as they sit on the steps of the back porch and watch the sun sink into a blaze of color on the horizon. She’s leaning back against Asami, head resting against her chest. Mako and Bolin are sprawled on the steps next to them, one on each side. 

“Dinner?” Asami guesses. 

“I think he means for us,” Mako says. “All of us.” 

“Hm,” Asami says thoughtfully. “You guys could make me fix your cash register, invite me to stay in your house, and let me completely fall in love with your boss.” 

Korra swats her leg. “We’ve done that already. Something else.” 

“I could stay here and live with you until you get sick of me and throw me out,” Asami suggests. 

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Korra says. “You probably won’t last a week.” 

Mako laughs quietly as Bolin drags the stereo speaker out onto the porch and hits Play on Korra’s beat-up phone. 

“You’re playing one of my mixes?” Korra asks, eyebrows raised. “You hate my mixes.” 

“Times change,” Bolin says grandly, as he sits down again. “Plus, this song is perfect. Just shut up and listen.” 

“He’s right,” Asami says, running a hand gently through Korra’s hair. “Shut up and listen, Korra.” 

“Oh, so now you’re siding with Bolin,” Korra scoffs. “I should make you sleep on the couch tonight.” Then, a moment later: “It is kind of perfect, though.” 

The sun setting over the beach. Mako, Bolin, and Korra. _Heaven Is A Place On Earth_ by Belinda Carlisle.

“It is,” Asami agrees. Korra presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth, and the four of them sit and watch the sun disappear, knowing that tomorrow, it will rise on a brand new day. 

Asami laces her fingers through Korra’s and embraces the change with both arms.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/thymewars)


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